


Tell Me You See Me

by Vermin_Disciple



Series: "This Be The Verse" Verse [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banter, Childhood Trauma, Communication, Established Relationship, Even some gratuitous Shakespeare, Feels, Humor, Kid Fic, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Canon compliant, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Politics, Post-Canon Cardassia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Politics, Smut, Snark, a bit of everything really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermin_Disciple/pseuds/Vermin_Disciple
Summary: After Garak receives an unexpected communication from Amsha Bashir, Julian finds himself trying to navigate both newfound parenthood and his own unresolved parental issues, in the midst of an increasingly tense situation on war-torn Cardassia.(This is a distant prequel to This Be The Verse, but can be read independently.)
Relationships: Amsha Bashir & Julian Bashir, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: "This Be The Verse" Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756516
Comments: 133
Kudos: 167





	1. Prologue: Overnight, Everything Changed

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to _This Be The Verse_ , but you can read them in either order. This series is set in a canon divergent AU in which Jadzia was not killed in "Tears of the Prophets" (S6E26) and the baby Changeling from “The Begotten” (S5E12) survived (though those details are only relevant for a few chapters here). Naturally, Garak and Bashir ended up on post-war Cardassia (where most of this is set). 
> 
> This fills in some of the backstory touched on in the first chapter of _This Be The Verse_. That chapter addresses some of Garak's monumental issues with his father and their effect on his relationship with his son, but it doesn't delve much into Julian's parental issues. I started toying with the idea of addressing those in more detail, and it somehow spiraled into this little epic. I've got 12 chapters finished so far, and it will probably work out to around 25 total. I will try to update once a week. This fic addresses some potentially triggering subject matter, most prominently childhood trauma. I will include more specific warnings on relevant chapters (and if you think I've missed anything, do let me know). At its essence, this is a story about screwed up people trying to be better (and not always succeeding), and trying to be good parents (in spite of their own histories and hangups). It should also go without saying that opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of the author. 
> 
> The title and the chapter titles are lyrics from the musical Fun Home, which seemed an appropriate choice for a fic about complicated parent-child relationships (though most of the quotes are taken wildly out of context).

“I was at the Center for Unconnected Children in the Lowod district today,” said Julian. He took a bite of nutritionally fortified kava grain porridge and scowled at it, as if he’d been expecting this bowl to miraculously have more flavor in it than the one he’d had yesterday, or the day before. “They have a little boy there who’s half-Romulan. Have you ever come across that combination before?”

“No,” said Garak. “It does show a want of taste on the part of his Cardassian parent.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?’”

“I have not. What vivid imagery.”

“It means that people shouldn’t criticize others for faults that they possess themselves.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” said Garak, who knew perfectly well. “In spite of what your holosuite programs may have lead you to believe, seduction is not a ubiquitous tactic in spycraft. Sorry to disappoint you, but my sojourn on Romulus was an entirely celibate one.”

Garak could practically hear Julian’s swift internal debate over whether he wanted to continue this argument to its logical conclusion, or return to his original subject. To Garak’s disappointment, he rolled his eyes and chose the latter.

“Never mind. According to his file, he was found in the basement under a collapsed house at the end of the war. The paperwork is full of holes, of course. They don’t have anything on him that he wasn’t able to supply himself during his initial processing, which hardly seems like an ideal time to get information out of a traumatized three-year-old. He was living with his mother and didn’t know anything about his father. I think we can assume his father was the Romulan in the equation. He gave his mother’s name as Aleka Remec, which sounds Cardassian to me, anyway.”

Garak had only been half-listening to all this, but _that_ caught his attention. Both ‘Aleka’ and ‘Remec’ were common enough names, but in association with a half-Romulan child?

“His name is Galen, which I thought was a bit of an odd coincidence. There was a physician on Earth in the 2nd century named Galenus, whose name is traditionally Anglicized as ‘Galen.’ He was one of the most prolific medical writers in antiquity. None of it’s very accurate, but he’s immensely important to the history of medicine.”

Galen Remec. Well, skilled as she was, Aleka Lemas was never the most creative operative in the Obsidian Order. Julian would have found her a great disappointment. His idea of a female intelligence operative was tall, buxom, and glamorous, always ready with a witty riposte and a stunning (or stunningly impractical) ensemble. Lemas had been small and skinny, all angles and sharp lines, with sunken cheeks and calloused hands. She wore dull, practical clothing. She spoke only when she needed to, her words blunt, terse, and unrefined, occasionally even coarse. Seduction wasn’t her forte. In all honesty, she was the last agent Garak would have expected to let her heart rule her head. But then, given the child’s age, he must have been conceived within months of the Order’s destruction. A dark and familiar scenario emerged: an ex-operative, far from home, taking solace where she could find it.

Lemas had taken over his post as the operative in residence at the Cardassian consulate on Romulus. The Tal Shiar knew that at least one of the consulate staff was an agent of the Obsidian Order, just as the Obsidian Order knew that the staff of the Romulan consulate on Cardassia Prime contained a member of the Tal Shiar. It was an old game. The Tal Shiar rarely managed to identify the operative in their midst, however. They hadn’t suspected Garak because he was too obviously a spy; they hadn’t suspected Lemas because she was too obviously _not_ a spy. That was Romulan thinking in a nutshell, really.

Garak supposed that in a sense, he bore some degree of responsibility for this child’s existence. He had selected Lemas for the mission. During her mission briefing, he’d included Senator G’lan Ramek on his list of potential informants. Throughout his exile he’d always tried to keep informed on Romulan politics, and he had not been surprised a few years later when Senator Ramek was executed for treason.

An illegitimate half-Romulan orphan would not have an easy life on Cardassia, even in happier times. While Julian babbled on about questionable ideas in ancient Earth medicine, Garak spared a moment of pity for the boy. Well, there wasn’t much he could do to alter the child’s fate. Tragic, perhaps, but life was full of tragedies, especially now. He hoped Julian wouldn’t develop one of his little fixations, though there wasn’t much he could do about that, either. Julian knew all too well that he couldn’t save everyone, and was prone to dealing with this unfortunate reality by selecting individual cases to obsess over.

There didn’t seem to be any great medical mystery surrounding the boy, which lessened the likelihood that he would capture Julian’s interest for long. Worrying reports were coming in about an outbreak of Rudellian plague, and if the Ministry of Public Health had any sense at all, they would not continue to waste Julian’s talents in the Division for Dispossessed Persons. Still, Garak thought it was best not to mention what he had deduced about Galen Remec’s parentage. Julian’s imagination would spin out a tale worthy of one of his ludicrous espionage holonovels, and then he’d never hear the end of it.

It was fortunate that Julian had always maintained that he didn’t want children.


	2. Chapter 1: Nothing I Just Did is Anything I Would Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He tells us he’s taking leave to volunteer for relief work on Cardassia Prime, and we don’t hear from him for months. Then out of nowhere we get a subspace message telling us that he’s left Starfleet permanently and moved to Cardassia, that he’s married someone we didn’t know he was in a relationship with, and that we have a grandson! Does he think that if he stops speaking to us long enough we’ll just stop taking an interest in his life? We’re his parents!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cardassian vocab credits (let me know if I missed or misattributed any):  
> - _Yadik_ (father), [Vyc and tinsnip's English-Kardasi Dictionary](https://cardassianlanguage.tumblr.com/post/165952398108/english-kardasi-dictionary-version-061)  
> - _Chufa_ (teardrop-shaped ridges on forehead), [Vyc and tinsnip's English-Kardasi Dictionary](https://cardassianlanguage.tumblr.com/post/165952398108/english-kardasi-dictionary-version-061), credited to teroknortailor  
> - _Anshwar_ (pressing foreheads together as a form of affection), AuroraNova’s [Altering Course](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5278406/chapters/12181718)

“Minister, there’s a subspace transmission for you. It’s from Deep Space 9.”

“If it’s about the industrial replicators, route directly to Minister Pa’Dar. There’s no reason to go through me.” The Federation seemed to have got it into their heads that Minister Garak should be their primary liaison within the Cardassian government for _everything_ , whether or not it fell within his purview, and it was frankly getting a bit tedious.

“I don’t believe it is, sir. The woman is not affiliated with the Federation government or Starfleet. She claims that her name is Amsha Bashir. Isn’t ‘Bashir’ your husband’s name?”

His secretary knew perfectly well that it was. “I’ll speak to her now, then.”

The door closed. A moment later, the screen on his console went black, and then Julian’s mother appeared on the screen.

“Mrs. Bashir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m sorry to call you at work, but I didn’t want Jules—Julian to intercept my call. I know you don’t know me, but I—I just wasn’t sure what else to do.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” said Garak, slipping into the soothing tone he’d reserved for distressed customers. “Cardassians take relationships through matrimony very seriously. You have every right to contact me, if it pleases you to do so.”

“I still can’t believe my Jules is _married_. Without even telling us he was engaged!”

“We were never formally engaged. It was something of an elopement. Once he decided to remain on Cardassia, there were some practical concerns that only a legal enjoinment could alleviate. Not terribly romantic, I’m afraid, but at least you can assure yourself that you didn’t miss anything in terms of the ceremony.”

“He could have at least introduced us.”

“We’ve already met.” Amsha Bashir and her husband had wandered into his shop during their brief but tumultuous stay on DS9. He’d found them amusing, and had fully intended to use the encounter to torment Julian - though after the fall-out from their visit, it hardly seemed worth it.

“Yes, but not as his—were you two involved, then?”

“No, not at the time.” The truth, if such a thing existed, was more complicated than that. But this answer served to mollify Mrs. Bashir, something the truth was unlikely to do.

“But you’ve known each other a long time.”

“Nearly eight years. We were friends, first.” Well, in the early days of their acquaintance he’d mainly seen Julian as a potential avenue for manipulating Starfleet, though he’d also thought it would be fun to coax him into a dressing room and out of all his clothing, should the opportunity present itself. But that wasn’t the sort of thing his mother needed to hear.

“That’s good.”

“Now why don’t you tell me what I can do for you? I somehow doubt that you’ve called me merely to find out how long I’ve known your son.”

“No, I haven’t. It’s about… Galen.”

“I thought it might be.”

“Julian always told us he didn’t want children. I always hoped he would change his mind.”

“I believe that Galen may have changed his mind.”

“Oh. Julian didn’t tell us much about his circumstances, or how you came to adopt him. He just said that he was an orphan whose parents had died in the war.”

“I would be happy to tell you more about it someday. However, now is not the most opportune time. If I may be direct, I assume that you would like to see him, and that Julian has not been entirely forthcoming in making arrangements to allow you to do so.”

“We asked him to come to Earth, but he said that he wasn’t sure when he could get away from his work there. So we offered to come there instead, but he said that travel to Cardassia is strictly controlled right now, and that we probably wouldn’t be able to get permission.”

“Your husband’s criminal record could pose a problem, at least in the current chaotic climate.”

“I know. But what if I came alone? Would _you_ be able to arrange it?”

“I may be able to pull the appropriate strings, provided you’re willing to come in as a volunteer aid worker.”

She nodded. “I am.”

“ _If_ Julian were to request it,” he added.

“He won’t talk to us.”

“Is he aware of your relocation to Deep Space 9?”

“That’s why he won’t talk to us.”

“Respectfully, I have no intentions of making any arrangements for you behind his back, Mrs. Bashir.”

“I’m not asking you to. But could you speak to him? Ask him to call us, now that we’re close enough to talk in real time? It’s the least he can do! He tells us he’s taking leave to volunteer for relief work on Cardassia Prime, and we don’t hear from him for months. Then out of nowhere we get a subspace message telling us that he’s left Starfleet permanently and moved to Cardassia, that he’s married someone we didn’t know he was in a relationship with, and that we have a grandson! Does he think that if he stops speaking to us long enough we’ll just stop taking an interest in his life? We’re his parents! How would your parents feel if you stopped communicating with them the way he does?”

Garak had to stop himself from laughing. Instead he said, in his most gratingly pleasant tone, “According to all official records, I’ve never had parents. ‘Garak’ is a common surname among the serving classes, and it’s one of several frequently assigned to foundlings.”

That might be laying it on a bit thick, but it had the desired effect of deflating her righteous indignation. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s quite alright, madam. There is no reason to expect that you would.” Then, because this penchant of hers for guilt-tripping was clearly something that needed to be kept under control, he added, “A word of advice, should you ever visit Cardassia: it’s considered a bit crass these days to make direct inquiries about anyone’s family. So few of them were left intact by the war, you understand.” Before she could start stammering more apologies, he continued, “In answer to your question, I will discuss the matter with Julian. I will even encourage him to contact you and your husband. Anything beyond that is entirely up to him.”

“I understand. Thank you.” She hesitated.

“Is there something else I can help you with?” he prompted.

“Do you have any pictures you could send?”

“I’m afraid that Julian is the collector of holo-images, not me,” he said. Mrs. Bashir looked a bit crestfallen, and he gave her request a split-second of reconsideration. “However…” He brought an image up on his own screen and transfered it to her.

She gave him a genuinely warm smile. “Thank you.”

“Good day, Mrs. Bashir.”

He might end up regretting that. The photograph was not only of Galen, but of Julian as well, and he doubted Julian would be entirely pleased that it was now in his parents’ possession. Garak didn’t accumulate sentimental effects as a general rule, and years of surveillance work made him particularly wary of recording devices of any description. This picture had been something of a fluke. He’d taken it the day they’d finalized the adoption paperwork and brought Galen home with them. Up to that point, he’d thought of Galen as a rather quiet, morose, cautious child, though in his more talkative moments he tended to ask innumerable questions. The exuberance he’d displayed that day had caught them both by surprise, and they could hardly keep up with him as he explored every inch of their small cottage. Garak had still felt very dubious about the wisdom of this enterprise, and even Julian’s expression took a turn for the terrified whenever Galen wasn’t looking.

The O’Briens had sent a box of toys and sweets that included a card from Molly and Kirayoshi (Galen had been more enamored with that than with anything else), and a holo-imager. Garak happened to be examining this device on the couch with an air of professional interest while Galen and Julian sat on the floor examining the rest of the box’s contents and eating more of the sweets than was advisable. At some point, Galen had climbed into Julian’s lap and pressed his _chufa_ against Julian’s smooth forehead, and Garak had snapped the photograph almost without giving it any conscious thought. He wasn’t sure what had motivated the peculiar impulse, except that _anshwar_ was such a distinctly Cardassian expression of affection, and a very intimate one at that, usually only observed between immediate family.

When the war ended he’d been fully prepared to give Julian up. He’d argued against the absurd notion of Julian joining him here and then spent months waiting for the man to come to his senses and return to DS9. He’d argued against legally formalizing their relationship, and he’d argued even more strenuously against the idea that they could possibly be considered suitable parents. In retrospect, perhaps he should have realized that nothing made Julian Bashir dig in his heels quite like Garak disagreeing with him. Optimism did not come naturally to him, but for the first time since he and Julian had stumbled into bed together against all his better judgment, in the looming shadow of a war that should have destroyed them all, he thought that maybe, _maybe_ there was some chance that this wouldn’t all go horribly wrong for them. It had also occurred to him that perhaps he should stop thinking of Galen as Julian’s project and the adoption as something Julian had talked him grudgingly into, and admit to himself that this was something _he_ wanted as well.

He could remember with absolute clarity the last time Mila had touched her _chufa_ to his and told him that she loved him. He’d been six, and he’d never been allowed to refer to her as his mother again. It had been the first in many lessons on how to guard himself against wanting anything he couldn’t have. Joining the Obsidian Order ten years later meant accepting that _anshwar_ and everything it stood for would never be an option for him. Now, in spite of everything he had been and done, Julian was his, and Galen was his; he had committed himself to both of them and would have to find a way to live up to that commitment, somehow, no matter how unsuited he was to it. Prior to this he had never committed himself to anything but the Order and Cardassia, and he had failed both in rather spectacular fashion. To fail in one’s responsibility to one’s family was tantamount to failing Cardassia, and he was determined not to fail either this time. _This I vow with my life's blood: for my son, for all our sons,_ as the adage went. Moreover, he refused to see his responsibility as somehow lessened merely because his husband was an alien and his son did not share his blood.

What responsibility he had to Amsha and Richard Bashir was another matter entirely. In a traditional Cardassian marriage, the permission of both parties’ parents was a legal requirement, and until a few decades ago, they also retained the authority to end their children’s marriages with or without their consent. (In a rare show of unity, the Central Command and the Detapa Council had joined forces to eliminate that provision. The Obsidian Order had objected, primarily because they found the practice of covert in-law assassination among the political classes eminently useful for blackmail, and as a means of either framing outspoken critics or eliminating them without direct Order involvement). The parental consent clause was waived if the parents were considered some form of undesirable, e.g. criminal, insane, or non-Cardassian (Julian’s parents thus had two marks against them). Even so, there were still clear customs regarding obligations to undesirable Cardassian in-laws, whereas with aliens there were no guidelines whatsoever. Deferring to Julian’s judgment seemed the most sensible course of action, especially since the open animosity Julian displayed for his parents was something practically unheard of on Cardassia, and he was uncertain how to approach it.

That thought brought another matter to mind, and he signaled for his secretary.

“Mr. Benec,” said Garak, with an amiable smile that put Benec on immediate alert. The boy was sharp, and unusually competent; it was a pity he had chosen to associate himself with such unsavory elements.

“Sir?”

“I would like you to do me a favor when you relay my conversation with Mrs. Bashir to Minister Marratt.” He held up a hand in warning. “No, don’t bother to deny it. Do you really think that I don’t know a spy when I see one? I’m sure that he would be very happy to spin Dr. Bashir’s current dispute with his parents as evidence of the moral dissolution of the entire Federation, as if Cardassian families always exist in a state of perfect harmony. In fact, before he prepares any treatises on the corruptive influence of Federation family values, I would strongly advise him to have his grandchild’s DNA scanned and compared to that of his son-in-law. Personally, I don’t care in the slightest whether his daughter chooses to sleep with the husband he selected for her or not, however, I fear that I may be in the minority. Many of our colleagues, who are not quite as broad-minded as I am, are likely to consider such a development as evidence of Minister Marratt’s failings as a father, and may even question his fitness for office. I have no intention, at present, of letting such potentially incendiary information spread. But if I hear even the faintest whisper of condemnation regarding my husband’s relationship with his parents, then I might find it very difficult to hold my tongue. You understand, of course. Please make sure that Marratt does as well.”

He doubted that either his or Marratt’s political careers would suffer any serious blows from such minor scandals, but Marratt was the sort of man who valued his own pride and reputation above all, making the threat of public embarrassment more effective than any threat of violence. Marratt regularly used this strategy himself, and had a particular fondness for seducing other men’s wives (that this was thought to reflect badly on the cuckold and his wife but not on the cuckolder was something Garak had never understood). Garak doubted Marratt would try this method on him (he would be laughably unsuccessful if he did), but he wouldn’t put it past him to try other ways of using Julian against him. Marratt had been sorely disappointed that Garak had not suffered any consequences for having the gall to marry an alien. (Garak had been somewhat surprised by this himself, though he supposed that even in the more liberal minded political climate of the present, it helped to marry an alien who had just cured an outbreak of Rudellian plague.)

* * *

The next call of the day came a few minutes later, and it also came from Deep Space 9. “Colonel, what a pleasant surprise!” He took one look at her expression and said, “This is the second personal call I’ve received today. I must be getting popular in my old age.”

“I guess you’ve already talked to Mrs. Bashir, then.”

“That was also a surprise, though I’m not sure I would classify it as a pleasant one.”

Kira grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were responsible for Amsha Bashir’s communications.”

“She’s been driving me crazy for the past two days,” she said. “I finally snapped and told her that if she really wanted to go to Cardassia, she ought to be talking to _you_ , not _me_.”

“I see.”

“Odo pointed out that you may not appreciate being thrown into the line of fire.” She glanced to the side in a way that suggested the good constable was somewhere nearby. “So I thought I should call and apologize.”

“I expect that your intervention merely precipitated the inevitable, but I appreciate your concern nonetheless.” He was completely sincere about this. A few years ago, the idea of Major Kira apologizing to him for anything would have struck him as absurd. Now, it wasn’t a complete stretch of the imagination to regard her as a friend.

“Did Julian tell you they were here?”

“No, he did not. Though it does explain his mood over the past few days.”

“This is getting ridiculous. If you don’t tell him to call them, I will.”

“That might be more effective: he took orders from you for years. It’s second nature to him. Experience suggests that as far as _I’m_ concerned, telling him to do anything is a good way to ensure that he won’t do it. I told him not to come to Cardassia, and you see how that worked out.”

“It worked out very well for you, from what I can see.”

“Precisely. But only because he doesn’t listen to me anymore.”

Kira pinched the wrinkled bridge of her nose. “Garak, I’m really not in the mood to play games with you.”

“I will talk to him. But I can’t guarantee that it will free your station of Bashirs.”

* * *

Garak did not have a chance to broach the subject until well into the evening. The regularity of working hours was currently rigidly enforced for government ministers and their staffs, since power was cut off at the end of the work day to conserve energy. Doctors were in high demand and short supply, and maintaining power supplies to the planet’s hospitals was a top priority, so Julian usually arrived home later than he did. Whatever time Julian did return, Garak would immediately lose him to Galen, and tonight was no exception. When Galen disappeared into his room after dinner, Julian stopped pretending to be anything other than exhausted and collapsed onto the couch with his head in Garak’s lap. Having another person turn to _him_ for comfort still struck him as strange and somewhat discomfiting, and he was never entirely sure what was expected of him in these situations. He settled for running his fingers through Julian’s hair, which elicited a heartfelt sigh.

“I received a most unusual call today.”

“Oh,” said Julian. His eyes were closed and it was clear that he was not paying much attention.

“You can imagine my surprise when my secretary informed me that the caller’s name was Amsha Bashir.”

“ _What_?!” Julian sat up abruptly and glared at him. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“My _mother_ called _you_ at _work_?”

“For an alleged genius, you can be rather slow on the uptake.”

Julian jumped to his feet. “What the _hell_ is her problem?!”

“You are, my dear,” said Garak, rising also. “Or so I gathered from the subtext of her inquiries.”

“What could she possibly want from _you_?”

“She wants me to smooth over the paperwork so that she can visit Cardassia.”

“I hope you told her to shove off.”

“I told her I would speak to you.”

Julian threw up his hands. “I can’t believe her! She has absolutely no right! It’s beyond the pale. And,” he said, rounding on Garak, “I can’t believe you, either.”

“Need I remind you,” said Garak, his calm tone belying a dangerous edge, “that she contacted me, not the other way around.”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to answer! You didn’t need to speak to her at all! What the hell are you playing at, offering to intercede on her behalf? If I don’t want to see my parents, what business is it of yours?”

“Under Cardassian law and tradition, your parents are my business, and I am theirs. Your mother does, in fact, have every right to contact me if she chooses, and I’m obligated to respond.”

“They’re not Cardassian! They don’t know a damn thing about Cardassian law, and I doubt that you have any intention of explaining it to them! If you cared that much about Cardassian traditions you wouldn’t be married to _me_. But since you _are_ , that means that you’re _supposed_ to be on my side!”

“So, if I understand you correctly, your parents are none of my business, but I’m still expected to side with you against them. You, on the other hand, are under no obligation to inform me that they’re in the area and have been trying to contact you. I confess that I’m surprised, after all your talk of marriage as a partnership. Or is that another of those Federation ideals that doesn’t hold up to scrutiny?”

“ _You_ are taking _me_ to task for not telling you everything? I’ve known you for eight years and I still don’t know which of the birthdates you’ve told me is your real one.”

Neither did Garak, but this didn’t seem like an opportune time to point that out. “Aside from one or two trivialities, my remaining secrets would only endanger you if you knew of them. _You_ are just harboring a juvenile resentment you can’t bring yourself to move past.”

“I should just forgive and forget, is that it? Because that worked out so well for _you_ , did it?”

A door slid open. Julian seemed to shake himself, and the anger fell away from his face just in time for Galen to appear in the doorway. “Daddy? Yadik?” His brow was furrowed in concern. It wasn’t a very Cardassian expression, so he must have picked it up from Julian.

Julian scooped him up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Would you like me to read you another fairy tale?”

Why humans thought that stories involving cannibalism and necrophilia were appropriate for children was beyond him, but the prospect of hearing a new one clearly delighted Galen. Garak pressed his palm against Galen’s and said goodnight, and over his head gave Julian a look that said, ‘We’ll finish this discussion later, when you’ve decided to act like a rational adult.’ Julian just glared at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Feelings are discussed, reconciliation is achieved, and resolutions are made.


	3. Chapter 2: Make This Not the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You may have had a point,” he mumbled. “About being childish.” When Garak didn’t say anything, he added, “I have… issues with my parents.”_
> 
> _“Really? You astonish me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upping the rating on this just to be safe. Never sure what the line is between 'mature' and 'explicit.' And anyway, whenever I try to write gratuitous pornography, what I end up with is usually gratuitous snark with a bit of vaguely described sex in it. So, there's a bit of explicit(ish) material in this chapter. Anatomical terms have been borrowed from [tinsnip's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip) [Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479), but used with my own modifications. There are also some serious topics addressed rather flippantly here (e.g. xenophobia, workplace sexual harassment) that are dealt with more seriously in other chapters. (The chapters from Garak's POV are especially prone to this. It may also be reflective of the author's dark sense of humor.)

Either Julian was reading Galen an entire novel, or he had decided to sleep elsewhere. Garak probably should have left him to stew, but this peevishness irked him too much to ignore. The house was quiet, but a dim glow from beneath Galen’s door indicated that a lamp was still on. Even he had to admit that the picture greeting him was almost unbearably sweet. Galen was fast asleep in Julian’s lap, his cheek pressed against Julian’s chest and one stubby thumb in his mouth (they were going to have to do something about that before some sort of malocclusion set in). Julian was absently stroking his hair, clearly lost in thought, though his eyes refocused when the door opened.

“Julian.”

“Keep your voice down.”

Garak did not point out that his voice was barely above a whisper. “Stop being childish, my dear, and come to bed.”

Julian shot him a mutinous look. “I’m perfectly comfortable where I am, thanks.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t find that argument convincing.”

“Who’s arguing? I’m done arguing with you for tonight, so go away before you wake up Galen.”

Garak gave up and returned to his own empty bed.

* * *

Early in their relationship, it had taken Garak several months to get comfortable sleeping next to another person, and now it seemed somewhat ironic that Julian’s current absence made sleep quite impossible. After a few hours of tossing and turning, Julian finally slunk into the room and slid under the covers, trying to disturb them as little as possible. Garak rolled over to face him, and to his relief was offered a rueful smile. Julian wrapped his arms around him and sighed against his neck.

“You may have had a point,” he mumbled. “About being childish.” When Garak didn’t say anything, he added, “I have… issues with my parents.”

“Really? You astonish me.”

“The sarcasm isn’t helping, _dear_.”

“My apologies,” he said, supposing that he could at least try to meet the ridiculous man half-way.

Julian shifted his position and kissed the side of Garak’s neck, hand drifting down to caress his inner thigh. Garak moved the hand back to his chest and held it there, rolling his eyes. Usually he was not averse to using sex as a form of conflict resolution, but it was late and he’d hardly slept, and on the whole he found Julian much more attractive when he was being irritating on _purpose_ than when he was just being irritating.

“You’re not going to let me apologize to you?”

“Somehow I doubt that apology is your primary motivation,” said Garak. Realizing that was perhaps a bit petty, he softened his tone. “Go to sleep, my love. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“Fine. Suit yourself,” said Julian, aiming for blase but only managing to graze it. Garak suspected that the attitude beneath the affected tone was closer to insecurity than annoyance, something Julian more or less confirmed by promptly falling asleep in Garak’s arms instead of rolling over to put some distance between them. Garak did not fall asleep promptly, and instead found himself ruminating over the day’s events in order to determine where precisely the breakdown in communications had occurred and whether there was anything he could have done to prevent it. He’d been content to lay all the blame on Julian a few minutes ago, but on further reflection perhaps he wasn’t _entirely_ free of culpability himself.

* * *

Years of being constantly on guard had made Garak a habitually light sleeper, and it took very little restlessness from Julian to wake him. Even when Julian was conscious enough to stay still, Garak always seemed to sense that he was awake. When Garak opened his eyes and found that there was still at least an hour before sunrise, he wasn’t surprised to find Julian staring at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. He seemed to feel Garak’s eyes on him, and sighed.

“Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.”

“I appreciate the effort, but I’m afraid you’re going to find it difficult to circumvent thirty years of Obsidian Order training.”

Julian snuggled closer and rested his head on Garak’s shoulder.

“Would you like to talk about it? It is technically morning.”

Julian stayed silent for a long time. Finally he said, “I wish I could just hate them. It would make things easier.” Garak found Julian’s relationship with his parents a bit incomprehensible, but _that_ was a sentiment that he understood all too well. “I never used to feel this guilty about cutting them off. I was too full of righteous indignation about what they did to me.”

Garak could not share in Julian’s disgust with his parents’ actions. What Richard and Amsha Bashir had done, however risky or foolish, had been too fundamental to creating the man he loved. In a way, he was grateful to them, though he had the good sense not to say this aloud.

“Then my father went to prison so that I could keep my career, and I still don’t know how to feel about that.”

“May I suggest that you feel that he deserved to be punished for _his_ crime, not _yours_. Because he accepted a jail sentence on your behalf, you have been put in a position of being indebted to him, something which I imagine you find intolerable.”

“I was 15 when I found out what they’d done to me. When I confronted them about it, my father told me that I should be thanking them. They had _saved_ me. Because of their _intervention_ , I was going to amount to something! I was destined for _greatness_! I could do whatever I wanted with my life! As long as no one ever found out about _our_ little secret. Just look at all the _sacrifices_ we’ve made for you, Jules! You should be _so_ grateful.

“Well, when he turned himself in, I was _grateful_ , at least at first. I thought that he had finally taken responsibility for something and admitted that he had done something wrong. I actually went to see him in New Zealand, right after it happened. Do you know what I realized? He hadn’t learned a damn thing. He hadn’t changed at all. You’d think living in a penal colony for a month would make someone less smug, not more. He was only too pleased to tell me about how much he was suffering for me. Starfleet should be giving him a medal for giving them such a brilliant doctor, not throwing him in jail. Everything I’d ever accomplished was his doing, and I would do well to remember that.

“Mother just defended him, as she always does. She always goes along with all of his asinine schemes. In fact, the only ones that have ever been remotely successful are the ones she helped him concoct. I’m sure that the genetic enhancement was his idea, but she could have put a stop to it just by standing aside and doing nothing. He has no head for logistics and virtually no follow through. The fact that they made it to Adigeon Prime and managed to find a competent doctor to perform the procedure proves that she must have arranged it. Father never would have thought of calling _you_ either, and even if he had, you would have sliced through his bluster in about ten seconds and sent him packing. Anyone with half a brain can peg him as a huckster and a narcissist, but in her own way she’s just as bad. She says they did it because they love me, because it pained her to watch me struggle. But the truth is, having a deficient son meant that they had to face the fact that _they_ might be deficient, and that’s just not what the Bashirs do. Why face facts when you can change them? Why help the son you have when you can create the son you want instead?

“Maybe they’re right, and Jules would have suffered the great indignity of being below average, or mediocre at best. But at least there would have been doors open for him to try, even if he failed to go through them. When I was 15, I learned that every door had already been slammed in my face without my realizing it, and that the only way I could do anything worthwhile was if I learned to pick a few locks. But that was never the person I wanted to be. Jules might have been nothing better than ordinary, but at least he could have been honest, even if he was a great disappointment to his parents. Besides, being extraordinary never saved me from being a disappointment.”

Garak thought of his first interrogation: the way his stomach twisted when he’d pushed a button and watched a man writhe in pain, and how he’d swallowed down the bile rising in his throat as he felt Tain’s eyes on him. That _was_ the person he’d wanted to be, though it had not come as naturally to him as he’d thought that it should. Nor had turning himself into that person ever saved _him_ from being a disappointment.

“Like I said, I have issues with my parents.”

“I believe,” said Garak carefully, aware that he was far better at creating conflict than resolving it, “that I may owe you an apology for not taking those issues very seriously.”

Julian wrapped himself around him like the tendrils of an Edenian sundew. “Thank you.”

“Now what would you like me to do? I assume that you do not want your parents to suffer an unfortunate shuttle accident, but I can tell your mother to - as you so eloquently put it - ‘shove off,’ if that is what you want.”

Julian squeezed him even more tightly - really, the man was much stronger than he looked - and mumbled something Garak didn’t quite hear, although he could make out the word ‘shuttle.’ Garak stroked his hair and waited for him to collect himself.

“I’ll speak to her. I’m just not sure what I’ll say. She hasn’t done anything like this in years. We never had more than occasional perfunctory communications when I was on DS9, and they knew better than to even ask to come visit, let alone show up unannounced. They certainly never tried to contact anyone else about me. I don’t think Mother ever had a single conversation with Palis when I wasn’t in the room. But she called _you_ to circumvent me. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“She indicated that it was about Galen.”

“That’s another thing - I’m not sure I trust them enough to let them have any sort of relationship with Galen. But do I really have the right to make that decision for him unilaterally? I know how important extended family is in Cardassian culture, and I can’t help but feel like I’m denying _him_ something by keeping my parents out of his life. I’m worried that he’ll think it’s about him - something he’s done, or just who he is. I’m afraid that he’s experienced so much rejection and neglect that he’s learned to expect it and blame himself for it.”

“So you’re concerned that your parents might exacerbate these neuroses of his whether or not you allow them to be part of his life.”

“I honestly don’t know. Most people don’t treat their grandchildren the same way they treated their children. I do _want_ Galen to have more people in his life who care about him. What do you think?”

Garak wished that Mila had lived. She had been more of a mother to him than Tain had been a father, but she had never been allowed to publicly acknowledge it, either. She would have enjoyed being a grandmother. (She would have given Julian a hard time, but only because she approved of him.) “I think that they are your parents, and that you are in a better position to judge. However… you are right that Cardassians put great value on their family ties. The absence of those ties is often felt very keenly.”

Garak kept his expression neutral under Julian’s searching gaze. Julian didn’t say whatever he was thinking, but he did make his feelings clear by kissing him very affectionately.

“Having my mother as a house-guest may make me a little unbearable, just so you know.”

“I liked you when everyone else on the station found you unbearable, so I expect I’ll manage well enough.”

Julian kissed him again, and kept kissing him, so Garak presumed the conversation was over, for now. They would have to get up soon enough, but in the meantime it was always lovely to have Julian in his arms. He didn’t glance at the chronometer until he felt Julian’s hand working its way under his sleeping tunic.

“Julian.”

“Mmm.” Julian was too preoccupied with sucking on one of his neck ridges to reply. His fingers, meanwhile, were now occupied with rubbing the scales framing Garak’s _ajan_ in a very tantalizing way.

“Julian, much as I appreciate your - ah - ministrations, we really do have to get up.” Julian had proceeded from sucking to biting, which meant that there was an increasingly high probability that they would both be late to work.

“We still have a few minutes.”

“I prefer to have more than a few minutes.”

“Well, you know what they say: better to get off quickly than not at all.”

“They don’t say that on Cardassia. We prefer quality over quantity.”

Julian paused. “Do you really want me to stop, or are you just trying to get me to seduce you?”

“The latter. Though I must say this is hardly your best effort.”

Garak had always regarded anyone who appeared to be trying to seduce him as inherently suspicious and presumably dangerous. Now, in the absence of any ulterior motive, he found that he rather enjoyed being seduced. It was a very mutually beneficial arrangement, since Julian liked to think of himself as being skilled in the art of seduction. (He wasn’t, not that that made him any less appealing as far as Garak was concerned.)

“Well, you should have thought of that before you turned me down last night. Then I would have had time to seduce you properly.” Julian’s lips and tongue collided with his own again, and he was shamelessly grinding his erection against Garak’s thigh. Garak sometimes wondered why human males didn’t wear more protective and constraining undergarments as a matter of course, since their genitalia were entirely external and they seemed to have very little control over them.

“The world won’t actually end if you go more than a day without getting off, you know.” Parenthood should have taught him that lesson well enough by now.

“I don’t think your heart is really in this argument.” That was hard to deny, considering that Garak’s own hands seemed to have worked their way into Julian’s boxers of their own accord and were now massaging his buttocks. “You might as well let me win.”

“What is it you think you’re winning, exactly?”

“You, of course.”

“You have that even if you lose.”

“Good. In that case, I concede. Now evert so I can have my way with you.” If Julian was going to do _that_ with his fingers, Garak really wouldn’t have much choice in the matter. Cardassians could evert or retract at will, but spontaneous eversion became more difficult to prevent after sufficient stimulation.

“I think your limited capacity for logic has deserted you, my dear Dr. Bashir.”

“If I’m any judge, my dear Mr. Garak, your self-control is about to desert you.” Julian emphasized this point by stroking a cluster of nerves with surgical precision, and Garak everted before his brain even had time to fully process the sensation. Doctors played dirty. (If he’d known how dirty, he would have developed a fetish for the profession _years_ ago.) “Now what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I may be willing to come around to your point of view,” said Garak. He pulled Julian’s boxers down. “Though I should warn you that if I do show up late to a council meeting reeking of human bodily fluids, it will no doubt be taken as a confirmation of certain stereotypes about your species.”

“You mean that we’re all insatiable sex addicts willing to screw any sentient species that says ‘hi’? I can live with that,” said Julian, grinning. “I’m sure it will make me very popular at your office parties.”

“I’m not going to take you to - _oh_ \- to any office parties if that kind of popularity is your aim. Besides, I doubt many of my colleagues would be to your taste.” Julian’s hand changed targets, now gently encircling the slick _irllun_ at the base of Garak’s everted _prUt._ It was extremely distracting.

“The only person I’m interested in tasting right now is you.”

The repartee lost most of its verve at that point, and indeed most of its verbs (only a few proper nouns and breathy exclamations remained). Julian’s normally robust conversational skills inevitably deserted him once he was in a heightened state of arousal, though his other considerable talents more than made up for this deficiency. Garak was certain that there _were_ more invigorating ways to start one’s day than getting energetically fucked by Julian Bashir, but he couldn’t have listed them for all the latinum on Ferenginar.

A few minutes later, after Julian had collapsed on top of him and he felt pleasantly warm and sated and a bit sticky, they both looked at the chronometer.

“See, still plenty of time for you to take a shower,” said Julian. “Though I rather like the idea of you smelling like me all day.”

“How surprisingly territorial of you.” As much as his natural fastidiousness made him recoil at the notion, the provocateur in him was almost tempted. After last week’s council session Marratt had felt the need to comment on his own personal distaste for all the sweat produced by certain species among the Federation aid workers, before wondering loudly how Garak could possibly stand the stench.

“I take it the marks you leave all over my neck are not territorial in the slightest?”

“I happen to like your neck. I assure you I have no ulterior motives.”

“I noticed that you liked my neck even more than usual the same day I told you that I thought Dr. Zulak was flirting with me.”

“What an amusing coincidence.”

“Indeed. Well, it’s a good thing you weren’t trying to stake some kind of claim on me, because it didn’t work. If anything, she seemed to take it as a challenge. I had to tell her precisely whose territory she was encroaching on before she was dissuaded.”

His reputation did have a few benefits, now and then. “Your neck is perfectly presentable today, I promise.”

Julian sat up and stretched. “For which I thank you. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, but it wouldn’t kill you to show a _little_ restraint. At least until our power sources are stable enough to allow non-essential use of dermal regenerators.”

“Considering that it is only just 0600 and I’ve already acquired a fresh coating of human sweat, human saliva, and human seminal fluid, I’m not sure you should be lecturing anyone on restraint.”

“Technically that’s your own fluid you’re coated with, not mine.”

“You do choose the oddest things to be pedantic about. Fine then: an _injection_ of human seminal fluid, a _coating_ of Cardassian seminal fluid applied via human action.”

“Pity we don’t have a water shower. I could help you scrub it off.”

“You’re really not in the business of dispelling stereotypes, are you?”

“How dare you suggest that _my_ motives are anything but pure. Besides, I doubt I could get it up again before our water ration ran out.” That was probably true, though this said far more about the sorry state of Cardassia City’s water system than it did about Julian’s refractory period.

They did end up in the sonic shower together, though that was more in the interests of conserving time and energy than in further erotic pursuits (though as always, Garak did appreciate the view). Now that the rush of endorphins was wearing off, Julian was inclined to start brooding again. Garak massaged his shoulders.

“You are a man of exceptional courage, my dear. You endanger yourself with alarming ease in the interests of protecting others. You can face talking to your own parents.”

Julian recovered himself at breakfast, though there was a falseness to it that told him this was more for Galen’s sake than a reflection of his actual mood. Galen was very sensitive to Julian’s state of mind, and tended to get anxious if he sensed that Julian was upset about anything. Since he was such a bright, observant child, this feigned cheerfulness would undoubtedly stop fooling him eventually (and eventually he might even learn to pick up on Garak’s moods), but for now it was an effective enough strategy.

Breakfast consisted of garumlac (which Julian insisted on calling ‘fish juice’) and kava rolls with moba jam (something Julian had stockpiled the last time he’d been on DS9). Garak had never been fond of garumlac, and would have preferred rokassa juice or red leaf tea, but most of the planet’s above ground crops had been decimated in the Dominion’s attacks. Garumlac was traditionally fermented in underground cellars, so it was much easier to come by these days. Besides, Julian insisted that it was a good supplementary protein source, something that the average Cardassian diet was now sorely lacking. Although Galen drank his dutifully and without complaint, Garak caught him scowling at his glass once or twice when Julian wasn’t looking. Julian, with his characteristic enthusiasm for exotic foodstuffs, seemed to genuinely enjoy it. (He still wouldn’t touch rokassa, though he claimed it was the smell rather than the taste which put him off.)

“Helar is scheduled for this month’s supply run to DS9, but I think I could convince her to trade with me.”

Once a month, Cardassia’s Central Hospital sent a representative to coordinate the transfer of donated Starfleet medical supplies, to analyze samples using a more robust computer system and the more extensive Federation medical database, and to perform an assortment of laboratory procedures that the hospital’s infrastructure could no longer support.

“You’re going to Deep Space 9?” asked Galen, wide-eyed. “When?”

“Possibly next week. My parents just arrived on the station, and my mother wants to come and visit us, so I might be bringing her back with me.” Julian paused, and squeezed Galen’s hand. “Would that be alright with you, if my mother came to stay with us for a little while?”

Galen looked a little confused about why he was being given any say in the matter, and he nodded with a strange air of gravity. “Can I come with you?”

Julian turned to Garak, who answered his nonverbal question about the legalities with, “I don’t see why not.”

Galen made a noise of delight and finished off his garumlac without any further grimacing. Well, at least someone was happy about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cardassian vocab notes: rokassa, kava, and moba jam are all from canon. Garumlac is my own ( _garum_ was a fermented fish sauce popular in ancient Rome - not being terribly creative when it comes to inventing words, I usually end up falling back on Latin). 
> 
> Next time: We return to Deep Space 9 for an awkward family reunion.


	4. Chapter 3: It's Hard to Know Where to Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are there a lot of people in the Federation who are half-Trill and half-Klingon?”_

“Jadzia!” Julian embraced her on the doorstep, delighted. “I think your daughter just kicked me.”

“She’s a fighter. Trill fetuses aren’t nearly this energetic.”

“Yes, and I distinctly remember putting you on maternity leave for that reason.”

“You’re not my CMO anymore. You don’t have the authority to put me on maternity leave.” She grinned. “But before you start harassing Dr. Sutikna about it, you should know that she _did_ put me on desk duty. I just convinced her that sitting in a runabout wasn’t any more strenuous than sitting behind a desk.”

He ushered her inside.

“Hi Garak!”

“Commander! How delightful to see you again. You look radiant as always.”

“That may be the most blatant lie you’ve ever told,” said Jadzia, cheerfully. “I look like I swallowed an Aldebaran marsh melon whole. Some days I think I definitely prefer fatherhood to motherhood. Speaking of fatherhood, this must be Galen!”

The noise had drawn Galen out of his room, and he was now standing next to (and slightly behind) Garak’s leg, peering at Jadzia critically. Julian wondered if looking habitually suspicious was ingrained in his Romulan genetics.

“Galen, this is my friend, Jadzia. She’s going to be taking us to DS9.”

“Hi,” said Galen, still wary.

“Oh, Julian, he’s _precious,_ ” said Jadzia in a stage whisper. “I still can’t believe that you two have gone all domestic. It’s a good thing Nerys shut down all Quark’s betting pools - I would have lost a fortune. I didn’t think you’d last a month here.”

“Thanks,” said Julian, rolling his eyes. “Wait, when were we the subject of one of Quark’s betting pools?”

“There was _always_ a betting pool going around you two. From the day you started having lunch together in the replimat.”

“I lost a fair amount of latinum in that last one,” put in Garak.

“You bet against us?”

“I thought the odds were in my favor at the time. In a way, I was right, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, but we could use a few extra strips of latinum. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you not to be so pessimistic all the time.”

“Much as I enjoy watching you two flirt, we really should get going,” said Jadzia.

They said their goodbyes, Galen and Garak with a pressing of palms and Julian and Garak with a brief kiss (not the lingering, full-body kind of goodbye kiss Julian would have preferred, but Garak wasn’t given to public displays of affection, even when the ‘public’ only consisted of one old friend).

“Try not to murder your parents, my dear,” said Garak. “I’m not sure my political career would survive the scandal.”

“Don’t worry. If I do turn to homicide, I’ll make sure no one ever finds the bodies.”

“I’ll do my best to keep him out of trouble,” said Jadzia. “Since I can’t get him into any trouble in my current condition.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could, if you set your mind to it. Though I would be grateful if you refrained.”

“You have my word,” she said. “Dax to _Euphrates_. Three to beam up.”

* * *

To Julian’s surprise and relief, Galen handled the journey remarkably well. Being stuck on a runabout for 30 hours was bound to try the patience of most small children (or so his experience with the O’Brien children had led him to believe). He supposed that Galen had spent so much of his young life sequestered and bored that he’d developed a tolerance for it, and that idea made his heart ache a little. Or perhaps he was merely too fascinated by the experience of warp travel and Federation technology to suffer any boredom. Before they’d even left orbit, Galen peppered them with questions about the transporter, the runabout controls, the selection of Federation dishes in the replicator menu, and the station.

It hadn’t taken long for him to warm to Jadzia. Julian wasn’t sure what fascinated Galen more: Jadzia’s symbiont or her pregnancy. By the time they landed, he could recite the names, occupations and notable achievements of all of Dax’s past hosts, and had even grilled Julian about his participation in her _zhian'tara_.

He hardly seemed to notice the pregnancy at first. A few hours into their flight, Jadzia started showing him photos from Julian’s tenure on DS9, naturally selecting all the most embarrassing ones of Julian that she had in her collection and sending Galen into eruptions of giggling (Julian knew it was inevitable that the child would learn to mock him, but he’d hoped to have at least a few more years before Garak’s corruptive influence took hold). But it was the pictures from her wedding that really sparked his interest.

“Does that mean your baby is half-Klingon?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Yeah. Would you like to feel her kick? I think she’s practicing _Mok'bara_ in there.”

Galen placed a tentative hand on her stomach, but jerked it back almost at once. Julian and Jadzia shared an amused look. Klingon fetuses had shockingly good aim. Galen tried again, keeping his small hand in place this time, staring with open-mouthed wonder.

“Are there a lot of people in the Federation who are half-Trill and half-Klingon?” he asked.

“None that I know of. The Klingons aren’t part of the Federation so there hasn’t been as much intermarrying with them as there are between Federation worlds.”

Galen glanced at Julian. “What about human and Cardassian?” Julian hoped this wasn’t about to turn into a conversation about prospective siblings. Parenting one child was terrifying enough. Even if they did decide to acquire a second one, at some point in the very remote future, he was certain it wouldn’t be through any method that involved combining his genes with Garak’s (even presuming that the technology to do so was readily accessible on Cardassia by then). If Tain’s sociopathic tendencies were at all heritable, the last thing the universe needed was to see them combined with Julian’s genetic enhancements.

“That’s even more unusual.”

“But are there a lot of people in the Federation whose parents come from different planets?”

“There are quite a few, these days. My roommate at the Academy was Bolian and Andorian. You’d think she would be the bluest person you ever met, but for some reason she turned out green.”

“There are plenty of people on Earth with mixed human and alien ancestry. Usually Vulcan, since they were our first alien allies,” said Julian. Humans had something of a reputation for ardent xenophilia, which Jadzia would probably be making a joke about now if Galen were old enough to understand it. As if she was one to talk.

“Do they have pointed ears?”

“Most of them do. It’s a dominant genetic trait.”

“Will you take _me_ to Earth some day?”

“Absolutely,” said Julian. Galen beamed at him.

He said it without thinking, but something about Galen’s enthusiasm made him wish he’d hedged his answer, said something more equivocal instead. Everything between their worlds was so uncertain now, and the idea of being a source of disappointment twisted his heart. He was also beginning to reconsider whether taking Galen with him to DS9 was a good idea after all. He’d thought it would be good for him to get away from the misery and devastation on Cardassia for a few days. But they would be returning to Cardassia soon enough, and perhaps giving him this impermanent respite was a form of cruelty. He’d thought that DS9’s microcosm of somewhat fractious multiculturalism represented the perfect starting point for exposing him to the more cooperative cultural diversity of the Federation. Now he wondered if even a few days of watching people of many species working together and socializing together more-or-less harmoniously would make Cardassia’s xenophobia that much more unbearable for him when they returned.

Between this latest wave of parental anxiety and the more familiar anxiety of having to interact with his own parents, Julian slept very little that night. He’d almost forgotten how small and uncomfortable the beds were on these runabouts, and he missed Garak’s presence very keenly. Every few hours he roused himself to check that Galen was still sleeping soundly on the upper bunk. Lakatwo was stuffed under his arm, and Julian felt slightly pathetic for wishing he had packed Kukalaka. Galen did well until around 0200, when Julian’s ears caught the telltale shift in his breathing and the beginnings of restless movement. He rose and rubbed his back in soothing circles until the boy sat up, shaking. As soon as he registered Julian’s presence, Galen crawled to the edge of the bed and threw his arms around Julian’s neck, sobbing. His breathing was shallower than Julian liked, but he wasn’t hyperventilating. Julian picked him up and settled them both back in his own bunk, murmuring comforting nonsense. The episode was mercifully short, and it only took a few minutes for his heart rate to slow and his breathing to even out, and soon he was asleep in Julian’s arms. Julian didn’t have the heart to move him, but having a small child on his chest didn’t do much for his insomnia. He gave Lakatwo a squeeze. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

* * *

Kira greeted them at the docking bay, and to his relief his parents were nowhere in sight.

“I told them you were scheduled to arrive at 13:00. I thought you might like a little time to get your bearings before facing the onslaught.”

“I love you,” said Julian, with heartfelt sincerity. Jadzia snorted.

“You’re welcome. Just do me a favor and don’t say that in front of Garak.” More seriously, she added, “How are you two holding up?”

“About as well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” said Julian. “I’d like you to meet our son, Galen.”

“You’re Colonel Kira,” said Galen, in awe.

“You can call me Nerys, if you like,” said Kira.

“Yadik told me about you,” said Galen. “ _Everyone_ talks about you.”

Kira looked a bit nonplussed at that. “Everyone?”

“Congratulations on becoming a Cardassian folk hero,” said Julian.

“Is it true you saved Yadik from the Jem'Hadar?”

Galen plied her with questions about the resistance as she walked them to their guest quarters (several levels and sections away from the ones his parents were assigned to). He hoped Galen would still be in a talkative mood when he met his new grandparents. He frequently fell into periods of silent contemplation, perfectly content to play quietly by himself and answering any queries with terse monosyllables. Julian and Garak did not consider this a cause for concern, but he didn’t really trust his parents when it came to assessing a child’s patterns of behavior.

Kira left him with a temporary comm badge and instructions to check in with Dr. Sutikna at 0800. Jadzia insisted on seeing all of them at Vic’s for dinner. Julian collapsed on the couch while Galen explored their lodgings. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples, trying to will away an incipient headache.

“Daddy? Are you sad?”

It still caught him off guard when Galen called him that. He’d only started doing it a few weeks ago. They’d been ‘Julian’ and ‘Elim’ before. He’d come across the word “daddy” in a Terran children’s book. Julian had taken to reading these to him in both Kardasi and Standard, and he was picking up Standard with enthusiasm and remarkable speed. Usually he saved most of his questions for the end of the book, but that night he’d immediately started asking about what children on Earth called their fathers. He’d been a bit giddy when Galen asked if he could call _him_ that. (Garak, who had not been privy to this conversation, nearly choked on his fish juice the next morning when Galen addressed him as ‘Yadik.’)

Most children didn’t choose their parents, but Galen had chosen them. Parents had a great deal more agency in this equation; his own parents had not been satisfied with the child they had created so they had rebuilt him into a more impressive model.

“No, not sad,” he said. “Just tired. I never sleep well on runabouts.”

Galen tilted his head to one side and examined him thoughtfully. “Do you miss Yadik?”

“I do.”

Galen crawled into his lap and hugged him. “So do I.”

Julian held him tightly, steeling himself for what was coming. “Are you ready to meet your new grandparents?”

Galen nodded enthusiastically. Julian wished he could share that excitement.

* * *

If Galen hadn’t been standing there next to him, holding his (increasingly sweaty) hand, Julian might have stood at the door for an hour trying to talk himself into this. Instead, he merely allowed himself a deep breath, and pressed the door chime. A moment later, Amsha Bashir was standing in the doorway.

“Jules! You’re early!” She threw her arms around him, and he returned the embrace a bit awkwardly. They were ushered inside. “Richard, they’re here!” His father was already rising to his feet, setting a PADD down on the coffee table. Julian hadn’t seen him since his release from prison.

Amsha crouched down in front of Galen. “Hello, Galen. I’m your nana, and this is your granddad.”

“Hello.” Galen’s fingers tightened a little around Julian’s.

“Would it be alright if I gave you a hug?”

Galen glanced up at Julian before he nodded, and Julian tried to smile in an encouraging sort of way, while privately feeling irritated with his mother for trying to push things faster than she should. Well, at least she’d asked.

The lunch that followed was probably the most subdued, awkwardly polite meal the Bashir family had ever shared. They seemed to have no idea what to say to one another. Galen’s excitement revived temporarily over the selection of Federation cuisine programmed into the replicator, but once he’d tried everything on his plate (and everything on Julian’s plate) the over-stimulation of the last two days finally caught up with him. Between the drooping eyes and the yawning, Julian was afraid he’d fall asleep in his mashed potatoes.

“Would you like to go back to our rooms and take a nap?” Julian asked, hoping for an excuse to escape.

Galen shook his head. “I’m not tired,” he said, with a yawn. Nevertheless, a few minutes later he clambered into Julian’s lap and fell asleep.

His mother reached over and stroked Galen’s cheek. “He’s so cold,” she said, concerned.

“Both Cardassians and Romulans have a lower internal body temperature than we do,” said Julian. “He tolerates the cold better than a full Cardassian would, but I imagine the station is still a bit chilly for him. Though I still can’t get him to keep his hat or jacket on. He seems to prefer leaching off my body heat.” As did Garak; in the early days of their relationship, he’d often been torn between his aversion to prolonged physical contact and his instinctive attraction to such a readily available heat source.

“It could be worse,” said Richard. “We had a devil of a time keeping you in any of your clothing when you were three.”

He wished he could just find those sorts of anecdotes embarrassing, instead of feeling his stomach tie itself in knots the way it always did when any mention was made of his childhood, especially that part of it that preceded Adigeon Prime. So, he ignored his father’s comment, and asked for an extra blanket. He settled Galen on the couch, still sound asleep, and then returned to the table.

“You didn’t tell us he was half-Romulan,” said Richard. “We had to hear it from Commander Dax.”

“Does it matter?” snapped Julian.

“Of course not,” said Amsha. “But you haven’t told us _anything_ about him, Jules. You never even told us you were planning to adopt.”

Julian glanced at Galen, and sighed. “When I first arrived on Cardassia, I was assigned to work for the Ministry for Public Health, in the Division for Dispossessed Persons. One of my duties involved visiting the orphanages. Family is of paramount importance to Cardassians, but children who are orphaned, abandoned, or illegitimate have virtually no status. If they’re not adopted by a relative, they wind up in a Center for Unconnected Children until they can be apprenticed as servants or join the military. Since the war, the government has been making some noise about encouraging adoption, but considering the state of chaos everywhere, people aren’t exactly coming forward in droves to provide homes for the planet’s orphans. Too many don’t have homes themselves.”

“But you do,” said Amsha.

“Yes. So you see, I wasn’t planning to adopt, but it’s difficult not to consider it when you’re working in those circumstances. Even so, when you have to treat hundreds of these children, it’s better for the sake of your own sanity not to get attached.”

“What about Galen, then?” said Richard.

“I got attached,” said Julian. “I was just concerned about him, at first. Hybrid children always have additional medical needs, and frequently unexpected ones. I didn’t think those needs were being met. I didn’t think that the people in charge of the place had much interest in making sure that his needs would ever be met. I did _try_ to make them see sense, they just wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t justify repeated follow-ups in an official capacity, so I took to checking in on him on my own time. I couldn’t see any real future for him if he stayed where he was. Even if more people could be convinced to adopt unrelated children, Cardassia has traditionally had a very intolerant view of miscegenation. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like we really were his best option.” Convincing Garak to agree with this logic had been another matter, but he wasn’t going to discuss _that_ with his parents.

To his surprise, his mother hugged him. “Oh, Jules.”

“Mother,” he said, feeling slightly overwhelmed by this display. “ _Mum_.”

When she finally released him, another moment of awkward silence followed.

“Your husband seems very nice,” said Amsha, and Julian had the good sense not to correct her, or worse, _laugh_.

“That’s not what the Federation newswire says,” said Richard. At his wife’s sharp look, he added, “What? You’re the one who said we should ask him about it.”

Julian sighed. “Which articles have you read?”

Richard handed him a PADD.

_MEET THE MINISTERS_

_Cardassia’s new government draws both commendation and concern_

Julian skimmed down to a passage that one of them had highlighted.

_While Federation diplomatic circles have lauded the selection of former dissidents like Professor Lang and censured the inclusion of former military leaders like Gul Marratt, other appointments to the interim council have raised uncertain eyebrows. One figure who attracts both skepticism and cautious optimism is Minister Garak, a former operative of the Obsidian Order who lived in exile for seven years on the famed Bajoran space station,_ Deep Space 9 _. His ties to the Obsidian Order (the secret police of the old Cardassian regime) should be cause for alarm. The reasons for his exile are shrouded in mystery, as all records related to his previous career have been sealed and expunged. However, he has also worked more directly with Starfleet than any other member of the provisional government. His work as a code-breaker was instrumental in numerous offensives against the Dominion, though there is no doubt among either his supporters or detractors that his role as a leader in Damar’s resistance movement is ultimately what secured his current position. Adding to the contradictory reports of Mr. Garak’s character are the widespread rumors that he is romantically involved with a human Starfleet officer, which he has so far refused to confirm or deny._

“Ah, yes, I remember this one. It’s reasonably accurate, although I disagree with their assessment of Pa'Dar.”

“What is this ‘Obsidian Order?’” asked Richard. “The article calls it the secret police, but that’s it. We looked it up, and no one seems to know much of anything.”

Julian debated how much to tell them. Cardassia was moving towards a free press - or at least a fre _er_ press - so some of this was bound to come up eventually. Better that they hear about it from him first, so that he could do some damage control. “They were mainly involved in black ops and espionage.”

“He’s a _spy_?” His father looked intrigued, his mother worried.

“ _Was_. These days he’s almost respectable.”

“Almost?” said Amsha.

“Well, he did marry a human. That’s still not entirely respectable on Cardassia.”

“Are you going to be _safe_ there?”

“Cardassia was devastated by the war and the Founders’ attempted genocide. Everything there is unstable and uncertain, including the government that Garak is part of. Of course it isn’t safe. But neither is Starfleet. The work I’m doing there is important, and it’s important _to me_. And so is Garak.”

“But will you ever be accepted there?”

“Cardassians are nothing if not practical, and they are desperately in need of doctors,” said Julian. “They can’t afford not to accept me. Honestly, our marriage went over much better than we were expecting.” Galen raised more than a few browridges, though it seemed to be more out of confusion than disapproval. While the new government was broadly in favor of encouraging adoption in the aftermath of the war, they had generally low expectations about anyone following through with it.

“Are you happy there, Jules?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer. It’s hard to be happy when you’re surrounded by so much suffering. But I don’t regret any of my choices. I love Garak. I love Galen. I may even learn to love Cardassia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Some happier, less awkward reunions.


	5. Chapter 4: I Had a Life I Thought I Understood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I gotta bone to pick with you!” said Vic, as soon as they walked in. “You don’t write. You don’t call. And what’s this I hear about you getting hitched?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a brief cameo from S5E12 "The Begotten" by way of Chapter 3 of [This Be The Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013896/chapters/52533703). (As I noted there, I tried a number of gender neutral/non-binary pronouns for this character before settling on the ones used here, which are sort of a hybrid of several variants.)

Julian left his parents to mull over his dubious life choices. Perhaps it was his imagination, but after all the effort they had expended trying to get him in the same room with them, they seemed almost relieved to be rid of him, though they did indicate that they would see him that evening at Vic’s ( _dammit, Jadzia_ ). Galen hardly stirred when Julian gently retrieved him from the couch, though he groggily opened his eyes when they ran into Chalan Aroya, owner of the _Celestial Cafe_ , outside the turbolift.

“Dr. Bashir! When your parents told me you were going to be on the station I hoped I might run into you.”

“My parents?”

“Yes, they were in the restaurant last night. Such charming people. Your father has had a fascinating career.”

“Certainly a varied one,” said Julian neutrally.

“And you must be Galen! My name is Aroya. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Hello,” said Galen, a bit muzzily.

“Oh, he’s adorable,” she said. “I hope you’ll both come see me in the restaurant before you leave. I have to open up now, but I just wanted to give you and Mr. Garak my congratulations! I know it’s a few months overdue, but I was so pleased to hear about your marriage. Though you can tell him that I still haven’t forgiven him for closing his shop. My wardrobe is in tragic shape without him.” She smiled graciously at them and disappeared into the turbolift.

Being the subject of the DS9 gossip mill was always a little disconcerting. He had personally told exactly two residents of DS9 about their marriage and Galen’s adoption, but he would be very surprised if there was anyone left on the station who didn’t know by now. As if to confirm his suspicions, five minutes later he had a similar conversation with Lieutenant Vilix'pran, followed by Crewman Duarte, and even Vedek Ossan. Julian tried not to feel too put out that Garak’s tailoring was missed far more keenly than his bedside manner. (It was a wonder Ossan hadn’t caused a minor scandal by allowing his robes to be mended by a Cardassian.)

Galen seemed quite mystified by all the positive attention. He was used to getting stared at, all too often with open hostility. Having people coo over him was a perplexing novelty. Back in their quarters, he immediately sequestered himself in his room to complete some of the schoolwork he was missing. Julian wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or concerned that he did this entirely of his own accord. The guardians at the Center for Unconnected Children (hardly qualified teachers) had been convinced of Galen’s mental deficiency, and Julian worried about how much of that he had internalized. His teacher at the ministry school was all too eager to praise his intelligence, but Galen seemed to recognize that for the sycophancy it undoubtedly was.

“He only says that because he’s afraid of Yadik,” Galen said once, in that startlingly matter-of-fact tone he sometimes used.

Like many of the planet’s institutions, Cardassia’s educational system had mostly collapsed during the war. The Jem’Hadar did not spare schools when ordered to destroy cities. The remaining or reformed government ministries had set up educational programs for the children of their employees. In Julian’s opinion, this was as emotional as it was practical: Cardassians preferred to keep their remaining family members close by, and facilities for elderly parents and grandparents were as common as those for children.

The hospital had similar programs, and they had debated at some length the pros and cons of each. They both had drawbacks in terms of safety; the center of the new Cardassian government was a prime political target, and the capital’s Central Hospital could easily become the epicenter of an epidemic. But security was better at the ministry, particularly around the school, since targeting the children of politicians was not an uncommon tactic in the old Cardassia. The hospital was also a place of death and suffering as much as it was a place of healing, and Julian thought that Galen had already seen far too much of that.

Overt bullying or mistreatment by teachers was unlikely to be problem at the ministry, where Garak’s position and reputation made for a very effective shield. Julian did wonder, though, whether Galen would ever be able to make friends there. The hospital school may have been better on that count; people in the sciences were traditionally more liberal-minded by Cardassian standards, and tended to be less xenophobic. When Julian’s colleagues didn’t take him seriously, it was usually because of his gender, not his species. (Those who knew who he was married to _were_ scandalized by his marriage, though this still had less to do with his species than the fact that he was married to a former member of the Obsidian Order.)

In spite of these misgivings, they had decided on the ministry school. This had the added benefit of giving him more parental attention as well. Ministry schedules were somewhat regimented, so it was easy enough for parents to share lunch and other breaks with their children, something the more erratic schedules of hospital staff did not often allow. Privately, Julian thought that this arrangement was good for _Garak_ as well, even if it made him feeling slightly left out sometimes.

They would check in with Garak during his lunch break, though that wasn’t for another hour yet. In the meantime, there was another call he needed to make, now that he was somewhere with a more robust subspace communications system.

“Hello, Miles!”

“Julian! You didn’t tell me you were going to be on the station. I thought you weren’t scheduled to do the supply run for another two months.”

“Yes, well, there was a change of plans. My parents arrived on the station a couple of weeks ago.”

Miles’ eyebrows shot up. “Without an invitation, I’m guessing.”

“We’ve been sending messages back and forth in the last few months, which is frankly more communication than I’ve had with them in years. They wanted me to bring Galen to Earth, which I told them simply wasn’t a viable option right now. Then they got it into their heads that they wanted to come to Cardassia, which is even worse. _And then_ , they just showed up on the station one day. I was _furious_.”

“I’m surprised you were willing to go meet with them,” said Miles.

“I wasn’t. I hung up on them and started blocking their calls. My mother decided that the best way to circumvent me was to call _Garak_ instead.”

Miles’ eyebrows shot up again. “Now that’s a conversation I’d like to hear.”

“In retrospect, I’m not sure I handled the situation all that well. I, uh, hadn’t actually told him that they were on DS9, or that they’d been trying to contact me, and I think he felt a bit ambushed.”

“Oh, Julian,” said Miles, shaking his head.

“It’s not as if he doesn’t keep things from me all the time!” said Julian. “His secrets and lies were the basis of our whole relationship! I don’t think he’s really even that bothered if I _try_ to keep secrets from him - it just hurts his ego when I _succeed_. He still likes to think that I can’t lie to him without him noticing.” Looking at Miles’ expression, he added, “And I’m not interested in hearing your opinion on either of our egos.”

“Alright,” said Miles. “So, why didn’t you tell him, then?”

“Because I didn’t think it was something he would understand.” Julian ran his fingers through his hair, debating how much to say. “It’s more than that, though. I suppose it’s something of an open secret these days who his father was. As you can imagine, their relationship was _strained_ to say the least. I would call it abusive, though I’m not sure Garak would define it that way. He never got any sort of acknowledgment or affection from him. The man exiled him, tried to have him _murdered_ , and Garak still would have gone back to him and done his bidding, because that is what Cardassian children are supposed to do. My parents flew half-way across the galaxy just to have a chance of seeing me, and I refused to talk to them because it felt like yet another violation. I just couldn’t bring myself to try and explain to him why I was choosing to reject something he desperately wanted and never had. That blew up in my face of course.”

He related the rest of the melodrama, from their argument and subsequent make-up, to the awkward family reunion that had just concluded.

“If it makes you feel any better, I do think you’re doing the right thing,” said Miles.

“Oddly enough, it does. Thank you,” said Julian. “You know Garak wouldn’t appreciate me telling you any of this.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “I’ll try to remember not to tell him about it the next time we have a real heart-to-heart.”

* * *

“I gotta bone to pick with you!” said Vic, as soon as they walked in. “You don’t write. You don’t call. And what’s this I hear about you getting hitched?”

“Sorry, Vic,” said Julian. “Off-world communication isn’t very reliable on Cardassia right now, and besides, I’ve been a little busy.”

“I can see that,” said Vic, eying Galen with interest. “You sure work quickly.”

“We skipped a few steps,” said Julian. “Vic, this is Galen.”

Vic crouched down and extended a hand. “Put it there, pally. Your dad and I go way back.”

Galen looked up at Julian before hesitantly taking Vic’s hand.

“So, is it true this new husband of yours is some kinda spy?”

“Ah, not anymore.”

“Never figured you for a Bond Girl.”

“I should hope not, considering how they usually end up. And I’d avoid making that comparison in front of Garak, if I were you,” he added. “I still haven’t figured out how to delete his annotations on my copy of _Casino Royale_.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I know better than to offend anyone who can hack computer systems. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Julian.”

“So people keep telling me.” He’d meant it to sound wry, but it came out a bit defensive.

Vic gave him a thoughtful look. “Kid, don’t listen to a word of it. The man’s crazy about you. When you two were in here, he looked at you like you were made of sunshine. Anyone ever looked at me like that, I’d never let her get away.”

Julian wasn’t sure what to say to that, but was saved from having to come up with a response by Quark, who Jadzia had hired for catering (probably to stop him from his usual whining about losing business to Vic).

“Dr. Bashir! Have you made any childcare arrangements for your visit to the station? Because I have just the solution for you. And at a _very_ reasonable price. It’s a new holosuite program I’ve been working on: _Storytelling With Morn!_ ”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Does Morn have any stories that are appropriate for children?”

“The hologram version does. Kids love him. He’s a very comforting presence.”

“Thanks, but I’m not using a holographic babysitter.”

“I assure you, it’s secure, trusted, and perfectly safe.” Trusted by whom, he didn’t say. “With accreditation pending from the Federation Family Services Commission.”

“Funny how that accreditation is always pending, but never seems to be granted,” said Odo, from over Quark’s shoulder. Quark jumped. He hadn’t seen Odo and Kira walk in.

“Can I help it if Federation bureaucracy only moves as fast as a jellied-gree worm?” grumbled Quark. “Maybe I could interest you in some Delavian chocolates instead?”

“ _Authentic_ Delavian chocolates?” asked Julian. “Not those Yridian knock-offs? Because Garak would smell the difference before I even opened the box.”

“If they’re for Garak, then believe me, they’re authentic,” said Quark, and he sounded annoyed enough that Julian believed him. “You can pick them up at the bar tomorrow.”

Quark went back to barking orders at his waitstaff, and Julian turned to Odo and Kira. Galen gave Kira an adoring look.

“I assume things are going as well as can be expected under the circumstances,” said Odo. “According to my sources, no one in the Interim Governing Council has died under mysterious circumstances yet.”

“If any of them do, it won’t be because of Garak,” said Julian, with slightly more confidence than he felt. Marratt was certainly testing the limits of Garak’s patience.

Odo harrumphed.

“And where is Meru tonight?” said Julian, addressing what appeared to be a shimmering scarf draped over Kira’s shoulders. The scarf glowed yellow and slithered to the floor, where it metamorphosed into an androgynous humanoid form. Currently, ze was Julian’s height; Meru tended to assume the stature and rough physique of whoever ze happened to be talking to. Galen was staring open-mouthed. He’d heard about Changelings, but he’d never seen one.

“I’m here, Dr. Julian!” Julian was suddenly engulfed in a hug that defied the laws of physics. Meru was as demonstrative in zir affections as Odo wasn’t, and extremely tactile about it (and everything else). Ze also tended to lose control of zir morphogenic matrix when ze got excited, so being hugged by zem was often like being swallowed by an enthusiastic custard. “Am I still your favorite patient?”

“Oh, of course,” said Julian.

As Meru turned zir attention to Galen, ze began to shrink until ze was eye-level with him. “Your name is Galen Bashir-Garak! And you are four years old! I don’t know how old I am. I was in stasis in a jar floating in space! Then Odo found me and woke me up! I’ve been awake for three years! My name is Meru! I have a Bajoran name because Nerys named me!”

Talking to Meru was like talking to a large sentient puppy. Julian was glad that ze had gotten better about not touching people ze didn’t know without asking permission first, although ze still hadn’t mastered the concept of personal space. Ze was now leaning in to examine Galen’s face from a few centimeters away. Galen hadn’t backed up, so at least he wasn’t _too_ frightened by this somewhat invasive display of interest. He was probably just as fascinated by Meru as Meru was fascinated by him. Julian gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Galen tilted his head to one side. “Does it hurt when you change like that?”

“No,” said Meru, shaking zir facsimile of a head. “It feels nice! Do you want to play with me?! I can turn into a ball! I’m really good at balls!”

Galen immediately released Julian’s hand. “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

“Try not to knock anything over,” said Odo. “Or anyone.”

“It’s a holosuite. They can’t do that much damage,” said Kira. “Nog’s been teaching Meru how to play baseball. Ze doesn’t understand the point or any of the rules, but ze really enjoys being the ball.”

“Zir shape-shifting abilities have developed remarkably quickly,” said Julian. Meru, now an iridescent sphere about 30 cm in diameter, was bouncing gleefully around a beaming Galen. “Not that I have much basis for comparison.”

“Meru’s much better than I was when I’d been in Mora’s lab for three years,” said Odo, proudly.

Jadzia and Worf joined them next, Jadzia looking less cheerful than she had a few hours before. “Julian, how medically feasible would it be for _Worf_ to carry our next kid?”

“Feasible, certainly, but not necessarily advisable.” Worf looked relieved by that, so Julian grinned and added, “ _Although_ , with all those redundant organs, it may be less risky for a Klingon than it would be for biological males of other species.”

It felt strange to be sitting in Vic’s again, surrounded by people who were more family to him than his parents had been for the last twenty years. He’d tried so hard not to _miss_ this. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever have something like this on Cardassia, a place where he could join friends and colleagues and just _relax_. But the station had changed in his absence, and as comforting as it was, it was a bit like trying to put on a favorite sweater he’d outgrown. Cardassia needed him more than the station did, whether it liked him or not. Garak needed him, even if he would rather vivisect himself than admit it out loud. And Galen needed both of them. Being _needed_ was a very powerful antidote to the despondency and disillusionment he’d fallen into during the war.

Vic was well into his first set by the time Julian’s parents arrived. Richard Bashir was habitually late to everything, and Amsha didn’t press him about it unless the appointment was of some urgency. (Urgent appointments did not always include his various jobs; he had been fired on at least three occasions for chronic tardiness.) Because the universe had a perverse sense of humor, they walked in near the end of _Here’s to the Losers_.

“Interesting program,” said Richard, over the applause.

“Mmm-hmm,” said Julian. He was determined not to let his parents make him feel uncomfortable here.

“Does he do any 23rd century jazztronica revival?”

Julian tried not to wince. “He doesn’t sing anything anachronistic, so nothing that post-dates 1962.”

“… _I thought for once it couldn't go wrong_ ,” sang Vic. “ _Not for long, I can see the way this ends_ …”

“Pity.” Richard never could leave well enough alone.

“Jules,” said Amsha, “you have to work tomorrow, don’t you?”

“… _They play their game without shame, and who's to blame_ …”

“I have a few things to attend to in the infirmary.”

“Who’s going to watch Galen?”

“… _She's going to turn me down and say, can't we be friends_ …”

“I’m leaving him with Jadzia.”

“… _What a laugh, this is how our story ends_ …”

“You should leave him with us,” said Amsha, earnestly. “We _are_ his grandparents.”

The children were still playing on the empty dance floor. Meru had encircled Galen in an elaborate cylinder, spinning and undulating in time to the music, while Galen giggled in delight. That was why they were here, wasn’t it? So that Galen would have a relationship with his grandparents - preferably a better relationship than Julian had with them.

“… _I acted like a kid out of school, what a fool, now I see this is the end. I'll let her turn me down and say, can't we be friends?_ ”

“I suppose… that would be… alright.”

“… _Yes, I should have seen the signal to stop, what a flop, this is how the story ends_ …”

His mother took his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. He’ll be perfectly fine.”

Nevertheless, Julian was filled with foreboding.

“… _Can't we be, can't we be, can't we be friends?_ ” The song’s end was met by a round of humanoid and holographic applause. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Now what’s wrong with being friends? I hope you all count yourselves as _my_ friends.”

* * *

Julian checked Galen’s readings on his tricorder, frowning. With a sigh, he disentangled himself from his sheets and made his way to the door. Galen started and withdrew his hand when it opened, looking slightly guilty. Julian knelt down to his level. “What is it, love?”

“Um,” said Galen. “I had a nightmare.”

This was a baldfaced lie. Galen hadn’t been asleep, and Julian suspected that he hadn’t even _tried_ to fall asleep. They’d hoped he’d gotten past this. He should call him on it and send him back to bed. But Galen was standing there clutching Lakatwo and staring at him with those tragic brown eyes of his, so instead he said, “Would you like me to read you something else?” Galen nodded.

Julian tried to guide him back to his room, but Galen wouldn’t budge. “I don’t like it in there.”

“Why not?”

Galen shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Alright,” said Julian. “We’ll stay in here.”

He fell asleep half-way through Rumpelstiltskin and Julian decided to let him stay where he was instead of returning him to his own bed. During his first few weeks with them, Galen’s nightmares and subsequent panic attacks had kept them all awake. It had turned into a sort of routine. Julian attached a pea-sized monitor to his pajamas and set an alarm on his tricorder to alert them to signs of disturbance. Then one of them would go and talk him through the attack and once he’d calmed down, read to him until he fell asleep again. Much to Julian’s surprise, Garak had proved to be very good at this. Sometimes, though, Galen would stay awake, and merely tell them he’d had a nightmare. They were not entirely sure what to do about it.

It must have been dreadful for him to go through these attacks at the Center for Unconnected Children, with no one to comfort him, and no real understanding of what was happening to him. Trying to explain PTSD in words a 4-year-old could understand was difficult enough for a trained professional, and the Center’s staff were hardly trained and barely qualified as professionals. Julian tried to view them with sympathy, because the orphanages were all understaffed and what workers they had were underpaid. The job lacked any advancement or prestige, so aside from the occasional reform-minded idealist, most of the staff were uneducated and frequently uninvested. The war had not improved matters. Galen had received very little attention from the adults around him, most of it negative. From what Garak had been able to determine about his circumstances prior to the orphanage, this may not have been new to him. Survivors from his neighborhood claimed to have been completely unaware of the presence of a half-Romulan child in their midst.

It was only natural that he should crave their attention, and Julian found it extremely difficult to say no to him. For that matter, so did Garak. Galen had been so afraid those first few days that they might decide to send him back; it was hard to do or say anything that might make him feel as if they were upset with him. Instead of gently confronting him about the lying, they had instead chosen a strategy of staying with him until he fell asleep, thus denying him the opportunity of lying to them about it. It was a good thing that Galen was such a well-behaved child in general, because it seemed that neither of them were capable of even the most minimal discipline.

He was no counselor, but when he was in the mood for speculative psycho-analysis, he thought it probably had to do with their own respective childhoods. From what he had been able to deduce from what little Garak had actually told him on that subject, Tain’s approach to correcting undesirable behavior involved inflicting various forms of psychological trauma, occasional physical trauma, and borderline sadistic mind games. Julian’s parents, of course, had turned to illegal genetic manipulation. It was no wonder they had a better grasp on ‘what _not_ to do’ than ‘what _to_ do.’ He’d studied comparative humanoid development and childhood psychology on top of pediatric medicine - _surely_ he should have a better idea of what he was doing. He could almost here Miles laughing at him from 66.12 light years away.

“You can read every manual you want,” he’d said once. “But you’ll still end up muddling through it like the rest of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics Vic sings here are from [Can't We Be Friends?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OQuMecYOn4).


	6. Interlude: Rearrange and Realign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Is this really about what’s best for Galen, or is this about you?”_
> 
> _“Of course it’s about me,” he said. “It’s about me and Garak_ and _what’s best for Galen. It’s not just Galen’s life that would be irrevocably altered by this.”_

_FIVE MONTHS AGO..._

Julian tried to avoid introspection. His friends probably would have argued that this wasn’t necessarily a good thing, and that this might even be implicated in his tendency to speak or act without sufficient forethought. They weren’t entirely wrong. But what they failed to understand was that a mind as sharp as Julian’s could easily slice itself to pieces if it spent too much time focusing inward. 

Over the last month, the problem of Galen had become inextricably intertwined with the problem of Julian, and Julian was beginning to think that by the time he found a solution his dissected and reassembled brain would be altered beyond recognition. Whether the reconstruction would be an improvement was anyone’s guess. 

He couldn’t talk to Garak about it yet, not until he had sorted out the pieces for himself. What he needed right now was a sympathetic sounding board, preferably one who could give practical advice, and a perspective borne from personal experience. Direct communication between Earth and Cardassia was not possible with Cardassia’s off-world communications systems in their current state, however, which meant that he had to wait until his scheduled supply run to DS9. 

“I know that face,” said Miles with a sigh. “What happened?” 

“I met someone. No, not like that,” Julian added quickly, when Miles’ eyebrows shot up. “He’s a child at one of the Centers for Unconnected Children…” 

Julian offered a detailed explanation of the situation that had developed over the past month. Miles listened carefully, his brow becoming ever more creased, his lips settling into a frown. 

“It sounds like you’re getting attached,” said Miles, when Julian concluded his tale. 

Julian gave a hollow laugh. “I suppose I am.” _Getting_ attached was a massive understatement at this point. 

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“You sound like Garak. He keeps telling me that I can’t save everyone.”

“Well, I hate to agree with Garak, but I think he may be right,” said Miles. “You always do this to yourself, Julian. You find patients to get over-invested in, and then you… obsess.” 

Julian wanted to argue with this, but in reviewing his history of ‘special cases’ he had come to the same conclusion. It wasn’t as though he did it all the time. He maintained a respectable emotional distance with the overwhelming majority of his patients. But then there had been those instances where a patient got under his skin in just the right way, and he found himself crossing lines: professional lines, _ethical_ lines, putting himself in danger, becoming so focused that he could hardly see anything else. 

Ekoria and her unborn child and the incurable blight. Goran’Agar and the tantalizing prospect of freeing the Jem'Hadar from their addiction to Ketracel-white. Odo and the opportunity to defy Section 31. Melora Pazlar, who he’d wanted to love. Jack and Patrick and Lauren and Sarina, and the chance to disprove Federation dogma about augments. And the situation with Sarina Douglas in particular would surely have gotten even more out of hand if Garak had done a better job of masking his jealousy. 

(What made that episode even worse was that _Miles_ had been the one to point out Garak’s genuine distress. He’d been so enthralled with Sarina’s progress he hadn’t noticed. Oh, he’d heard a few snide comments, but playacting jealousy was Garak’s idea of foreplay, so he hadn’t paid much attention, and he’d missed the point when the comments _stopped_ , and became something else.) 

Then there was Garak himself. Garak, whose privacy he’d invaded out of concern, whose bedside he’d sat at for hours and hours, in a vigil that long outlasted his shift. Garak, for whom he’d made a unauthorized trip into Cardassian space to confront the former head of the Obsidian Order, one of the most dangerous men in the Union. 

And now there was Galen, illegitimate and orphaned on a planet that defined social status by family ties, half-alien on a world rife with xenophobia, where miscegenation was practically a crime against the state. Galen, whose health and wellbeing depended on people who had nothing but contempt for him. Galen, who was so terribly alone. Galen, whose eyes lit up whenever Julian walked through the door. 

“I know,” said Julian, resigned. 

“Do you? That’s new,” said Miles.

“Recreation options are minimal on Cardassia right now. I’ve had some time for self-reflection in my off hours.” 

“You mean you finally found the limits of Garak’s stamina?”

“I’m being serious here, Miles,” trying to keep the frustrated whine out of his voice. 

“I know,” said Miles, with another sigh. “Julian, there’s only so much you can do for this kid. It’s not as though you can take him in.” 

There were hundreds of orphans in Cardassia City, receiving minimal care and even less concern. How many thousands of children were there in the remains of the Cardassian Union, who had lost everything, including their futures? Didn’t they all deserve better than what Cardassia was prepared to offer them? Yes, there were hundreds and thousands of children who needed _someone’s_ help - but there was only _one_ he visited on his time off. 

“Why not?” said Julian. 

“Because it would be insane.” 

“We _could_ do it, though. We have a house. We have jobs. We have each other. We’re in better shape than a lot of people on Cardassia. And he’s clearly not receiving adequate care where he is.” 

“So you want to _adopt_ him? _You_ want to adopt a _child_ with _Garak_? You _have_ gone insane.” 

“That’s a distinct possibility.” 

“Somehow I don’t see Garak playing house with you.” 

“We’re two adults in a committed relationship. It’s not ‘playing house.’”

“You know what I mean. Garak doesn’t seem like the domestic type. For that matter, neither are you, or so you’ve always said.” 

“And you’ve always said that I would make a good father.” 

“Yeah, but that was under the assumption that you would be in a relationship with someone more… reasonable.” 

“Garak can be reasonable.”

“Garak used to torture and assassinate people for a living.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” said Julian. “You’ve always been supportive of our relationship. You said Garak was good for me.” 

Technically, he’d said that Garak was good at taking him down a peg, which was clearly just what Julian needed. But Miles was Julian’s best friend, and he knew very well how to read affection between the lines of snark. 

“Good for _you_ doesn’t mean good for a kid. Is this really about what’s best for Galen, or is this about you?” 

Julian gave this some consideration, although he’d already asked himself the same question. “Of course it’s about me,” he said. “It’s about me and Garak _and_ what’s best for Galen. It’s not just Galen’s life that would be irrevocably altered by this.” 

Miles’ expression softened at this. “In ways you’ll never anticipate, no matter how prepared you think you are.” 

“Garak may not always be as critical of some aspects of Cardassian culture as I think he should be, but he doesn’t hold to traditional views on interspecies relationships, or the children resulting from those relationships. And he’s been using his position to try and improve conditions for what Cardassians call ‘unconnected children.’ I’m well aware of what Garak is capable of. I know that he has done unspeakable things. But I also know that he is capable of doing—of _being_ —so much more than that. I’m not claiming that either of us would be ideal parents, but at least Galen would have a chance to grow up feeling loved instead of despised.” 

“You really are going to stay there, aren’t you?” said Miles. “Regardless of Galen.” 

“Yes,” said Julian. “I am.” 

“I still think you’re crazy,” said Miles. “But… I suppose this kid could do worse.” 

“That _is_ what I’m hoping to prevent.” 

“I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. He survived a war at ground zero. It’s not going to be easy.” 

“You know,” said Julian, “I think if there’s anything Garak and I do understand, it’s the consequences of childhood trauma.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A meeting of the Interim Governing Council is sidetracked by matters of the heart (and other associated organs), and Garak receives some troubling information.


	7. Chapter 5: Something's Cracking, Something's Rotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Perhaps Mr. Garak would like to express his opinion on this matter, given his_ personal _experience.”_
> 
> _Garak had been wondering when he would get dragged into this. “I’m afraid your opinion of my sexual prowess, while flattering, is very exaggerated. I’m only involved with one human, not all of them. I’m hardly qualified to comment on the sexual habits of the whole species."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter contains depictions of workplace sexual harassment, non-consensual groping, and xenophobia.

“The Interim Governing Council is in the process of selecting a representative to negotiate the new treaty with the Federation,” said Commander Riker, addressing the senior staff assembled around the conference table in the observation lounge. “The smart money is on Minister Garak.”

“What do we know of Minister Garak?” prompted Captain Picard.

“ _Know_ might be too strong a word. When it comes to Minister Garak, what we suspect and what we can confirm are very different things.”

“Well then, stick to facts and the most probable conjectures, Number One.”

Picard knew the facts well enough, and the conjectures, probable and improbable. He’d read the same dossier Riker had, after all. Fact: Elim Garak had been an agent of the Obsidian Order, time of service undetermined, but estimated to be between twenty to thirty years. Fact: his skill-set included designing and cracking sophisticated encryption protocols, something Starfleet had made use of during the war. Suspicion: he had been a high level interrogator prior to his downfall. Picard thought of Gul Madred, and suppressed a shudder. Suspicion: he had either committed or arranged assassinations of priority targets. Fact: he had been exiled from the Cardassian Union just prior to their withdrawal from Bajor, for reasons as yet undetermined. (Rumors suggested everything from aiding the Bajoran resistance to an affair with a politician’s wife, and none reached Picard’s threshold of ‘probable conjecture.’)

The record of his tenure on Deep Space 9 contained more substance, in spite of Security Chief Odo’s somewhat lackadaisical approach to Starfleet paperwork. The details of Garak’s immediate return to Cardassia were again fuzzy.

“His official position is ‘Minister of Culture,’ whatever that means.”

“It would appear to mean whatever Mr. Garak wants it to mean.”

“He does seem to have his hands in a little of everything,” agreed Riker. “And he has one other connection to the Federation that might be significant: four months ago he married a Starfleet officer: Dr. Julian Bashir, former chief medical officer of Deep Space 9.”

There was a sharp intake of breadth from a few seats down the conference table.

“Dr. Crusher, I take it that you know Dr. Bashir?”

Crusher nodded. “He was one of my students when I was acting head of Starfleet Medical. Brilliant, but… a little insufferable.” Her lips curled in a fond smile. “He had a bad habit of sticking his foot in his mouth.”

“Given Garak’s history and Bashir’s former position, I think it prudent to ask whether Garak may have any ulterior motives in forging this relationship, and whether Bashir now represents a security risk.”

“Worf doesn’t think so,” said Riker. “I thought it would be useful to get his assessment of both of them, so I contacted him yesterday. He said that he does not believe Dr. Bashir would betray the Federation, even for his _par'Mach'kai_. And his wife was offended by the very suggestion.”

“That’s not a term Mr. Worf uses lightly. I assume that he believes the attachment is genuine on both sides, then?”

“So it would seem. Commander Dax had a few things to add on that front. She said, and I quote, ‘Garak hasn’t corrupted Julian. If anything Julian is the one who corrupted him.’”

“And what is Worf’s assessment of Mr. Garak?”

“That he’s a liar, a spy, and a saboteur,” said Riker, imitating Worf’s deep voice and Klingon indignation so accurately that the rest of the table chuckled, “but he does have courage, and is not completely lacking in honor.”

“High praise, coming from Worf,” said Picard, wryly.

“My impression is that Worf doesn’t like him much, but he does have some grudging respect for him.”

Now that was a much more illuminating piece of information than half of the material Starfleet Intelligence had come up with. Negotiating with Minister Garak was likely to prove very interesting indeed.

* * *

The Interim Governing Council had been talking itself in circles all morning, and accomplishing very little. Garak had spent most of the meeting contemplating whether it would increase or decrease the government’s overall efficiency if he blew up the council chamber and started over from scratch. He was particularly irritated with Minister Lang at the moment. She was an ally of sorts, and most of the time he was certain that he would have regretted shooting her far more than he regretted aiding her escape from Central Command. But the woman was so damned earnest she might as well have been _Federaji_ , and whenever Minister Marratt started in on his latest absurd diatribe, she invariably took the bait, and any progress towards practical decision making ground to a halt. Garak suspected that was Marratt’s intent. His latest target was the corruptive influence of Federation sexual mores, which were certain to lead good Cardassians astray, especially Cardassian women. The recent devastation of the traditionally male dominated military meant that women currently outnumbered men on Cardassia Prime by a considerable margin. Humans, who were famously insatiable and undiscerning about their sexual partners, were certain to take advantage of this terrible loss to satisfy their own base desires.

Garak would have found it all quite comedic in other circumstances. In his experience, the Federation was far more permissive in theory than in practice, and while humans were not exactly prudish about sex, they were nowhere near as open or blase about it as their reputation suggested. Most seemed to find blunt discussion of the subject embarrassing or distasteful, at least in public. (Behind closed doors, Julian could say any number of delightfully filthy things and was willing to try practically _anything_ , but he was also dreadfully easy to fluster if you caught him off-guard in conversation about it.)

Humans, like most Federaji, did not consider inter-species romance socially unacceptable, but from what Garak had observed, they tended to prefer those species whose appearance most closely resembled their own. And for all their talk of tolerance for other cultures, most Federaji preferred not to socialize with aliens whose values were anathema to theirs. (Dax’s regular tongo games with the Ferengi elicited many raised eyebrows, and it wasn’t just the Bajorans aiming contemptuous looks in Julian’s direction when he sat down at Garak’s table in the replimat.) Oh, Garak didn’t doubt that some degree of fraternization - including cross-cultural exploration of mating rituals - was inevitable. The sort of humans who volunteered to lend assistance to a war-torn enemy planet were often the sort motivated as much by a thirst for adventure as they were by Federation compassion. Bedding the exotic locals wasn’t exactly an atypical pursuit for that type.

On the other side, though, Cardassians were hardly better in that regard. The military’s infamous abuse of Bajoran women had not been _entirely_ motivated by power and domination. Given the opportunity, plenty of Cardassians were inclined to sleep with aliens, especially aliens with high internal body temperatures and smooth, delicate skin. There was a certain visceral appeal in curling up with someone soft and warm, as long as you weren’t put off by the profusive sweat glands or the hair in strange places or the external genitalia. Even the human odor that Marratt so objected to could be extremely heady in its pungency. (It also made summer an immensely frustrating experience, since the heat that made Julian smell even more intoxicating also made him uncharacteristically disinclined to engage in any sustained physical contact. That he had also taken to traipsing around the house half-dressed had not helped matters.)

“If any Cardassians want to form intimate relationships with humans or other Federaji, I don’t see why it’s any of your business,” said Lang. “Or _mine._ ”

“Because humans’ sexual practices and attitudes are not the same as ours,” said Marratt. “Perhaps Mr. Garak would like to express his opinion on this matter, given his _personal_ experience.”

Garak had been wondering when he would get dragged into this. “I’m afraid your opinion of my sexual prowess, while flattering, is very exaggerated. I’m only involved with one human, not all of them. I’m hardly qualified to comment on the sexual habits of the whole species. My husband’s sexual habits, which I _am_ qualified to comment on, are not the business of this council. I can say with some measure of confidence that he is not out corrupting anyone with his wanton Federation mores.”

“As far as you know,” said Marratt.

“You may find this inconceivable, Marratt, but some people actually prefer to sleep with their _own_ spouses,” said Garak. “Besides, Dr. Bashir regularly works 14 hour shifts at the hospital - sometimes more - saving _Cardassian_ lives. He has neither the time nor the energy to go around seducing members of the general public, even if he wanted to.”

“From what I’ve seen,” said Claran, the Minister of Public Health, “it’s the general public who are interested in seducing him, not the other way around. He’s a very attractive young man.”

“That just proves my point about the danger posed to our society,” said Marratt triumphantly.

None of the rest of the council was paying attention to him anymore, however. Their eyes were collectively glued to Minister Claran. Claran was the oldest member of the council, and she had the bearing of a Hebitian matriarch of ancient myth. When she crossed her arms like that, everyone in the room suffered an instinctive jolt of apprehension, as if they were about to be told off by their own mothers in front of all their friends and colleagues.

“Your point was that humans are so ruled by their libidos that they’ll try to ensnare any Cardassian who approaches them. _My_ point is that, in spite of having ample opportunity to prove all your dire predictions correct, Dr. Bashir has shown no interest in the attentions of any Cardassians, apart from the one he’s married to. If we’re to take him as a representative of his culture’s values, then the Federation values you’re so afraid of being infected with are diligence, proficiency, dedication to duty, and marital fidelity. If those are the symptoms of contact with the Federaji, then I’m not in any great hurry to develop an inoculation.”

Even Marratt knew that he had lost. His expression soured when he failed to find an appropriate retort.

“I’m not sure it’s to our credit if Minister Garak’s _human_ husband is demonstrating more exemplary service to Cardassia than any of the _Cardassians_ on this council,” said Burba, the Minister of Agriculture. Minister Burba had been a researcher in plant genetics at the Ministry of Science before the war, and had never had much interest in politics. She did not regard her promotion as a very fortuitous turn of events. (It certainly wasn’t for the previous Minister of Agriculture, whose entire ministry had been obliterated by the Jem’Hadar.) She was unique among Garak’s allies on the council in that she didn’t actively dislike him. He’d won her over by putting her in touch with Keiko O’Brien, whose assistance was proving vital to Burba’s soil reclamation project.

“Minister Garak is hardly the only one with relatives serving the state,” said Marratt, still sulking. “ _My_ wife is—”

“Your wife’s cousin, Dr. Zulak, also works for the Central Hospital, I believe,” said Claran, and there was a note of warning in her tone that Garak didn’t like, especially when her eyes flitted from Marratt to him so obviously that half the room must have noticed it. “Your family’s service is also appreciated. Now if the council doesn’t mind a return to topics that actually merit our consideration, I’ve received reports of a new strain of Cartalian fever in Pelac, and I’d like to have my containment strategy approved before the whole city succumbs.”

* * *

Garak was not surprised when Claran found a pretense to talk to him after the meeting ended, and he walked with her to her office mulling over Marratt’s connection to Zulak.

“What did Julian tell you about Dr. Zulak?” said Claran without preamble, once she’d seated herself at her desk.

Not as much as he should have, evidently. “He did mention that she was flirting with him.”

“I would call it sexual harassment, but it’s often difficult to convince male doctors to view it as such,” said Claran. “A few years ago I would also have called it a firing offense, but we can’t afford to lose any doctors now, can we? Not over _relatively_ minor misconduct, with no formal complaint filed.”

“How did you become aware of it? I presume she wasn’t so foolish as to do this openly. Even Marratt must have some standards in selecting his lackeys.”

“She cornered him in an exam room and a nurse reported it. Out of spite rather than altruism, I’m afraid. Your husband certainly has a talent for catching the eye of Cardassians. From what I gather, this nurse _did_ take no for an answer, and took offense when she believed he had accepted the illicit advances of someone else. I consulted the security footage, and discovered that the nurse had misread the situation.”

“I would appreciate it if you would allow me to view the footage myself.”

“I thought you might.” She set a PADD between them on the desk, but kept her eyes on Garak’s face as the video played.

Julian entered the room, followed by an admittedly attractive young woman in a doctor’s smock. Julian smiled at her, though Garak could see that it was one of his placating smiles rather than a flirtatious one. “I just wanted to speak to you for a moment, Dr. Zulak,” he said.

“We only have a few minutes,” said Zulak, batting her eyes in a very obvious sort of way and stepping into Julian’s personal space so that they were standing only inches apart. “I don’t see why we should waste it talking.” She put her hand on his chest.

“I’m very flattered, but—” She cut him off by kissing him. He made a startled noise and pulled away. “I’m married.”

“So am I.” Julian had taken a step back, and found himself backed into the wall with Zulak pressed against him. She was starting to get decidedly handsy.

“ _Happily_ married.”

“I can see that,” she said, inspecting the skin underneath his collar, where Garak had left a series of dark red marks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m really not interested.”

She slid a hand down the front of his trousers and grinned. “I believe this is a sign of arousal in your species?”

Julian quickly snatched her hand away from his person. “Arousal is not the same as interest. Human males have very little control over how their reproductive organs respond to stimuli, and we can’t just retract everything if we don’t want to play.”

Still not deterred, she tried to move forward again, and this time he caught her firmly by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You’re wasting your time. And mine. We both have patients to see.”

“Fine,” she said. But as she reached the door, she added, “I like a challenge.”

The door slid shut behind her. Julian slumped against the wall in apparent relief, and then looked down at himself with an almost comical expression of consternation, as if annoyed at his body for failing to support him.

Claran turned the video off. “That was the first incident, at least that I know of. I confronted her with it, and she made a show of apologizing and promising that it would never happen again. Instead she just got better at avoiding the security cameras. I didn’t know that for sure, of course, but I did try to keep an eye on her when I could. Or someone else’s eyes. I happened to be in the cafeteria a couple of weeks later, when you and your son joined Julian for dinner. You should have seen the look on Zulak’s face when she realized whose husband she’d been harassing. Or perhaps you did.”

“I had no idea what she looked like until you played the security footage.” Claran raised her eyeridges skeptically, but in this case, Garak was telling the truth. “He told me she’d been flirting with him, nothing more. Plenty of people flirt with Julian. I can hardly be expected to keep tabs on all of them.”

On the whole, he found it rather gratifying to have Julian appreciated by other people. It was a very novel experience. Garak had rarely had anything that other people wanted, other than Tain’s favor (and _that_ had turned out to be a very sharp double-edged sword). He found Zulak’s behavior offensive, certainly. But the knowledge that Julian would firmly turn down offers from beautiful young women and then come home and engage in all manner of carnal delights with _him_ instead - well, that was _very_ gratifying indeed.

Claran said, “She cornered him again immediately after making her discovery, and evidently she was either too distraught to consider the issue of security or she no longer cared. I assume you would like to see that footage as well?”

Julian was already present in the exam room in the second video, adding notes to a patient’s file. The opening of the door seemed to startle him.

“Oh, for god sakes. This has got to stop, Zulak.”

Zulak came to face him across the desk he was sitting at. He stood, warily, but she seemed to prefer to keep the desk between them this time. “Why didn’t you tell me that the person you’re happily married to is _Minister Garak_?!”

“Because it shouldn’t matter _who_ I’m married to,” snapped Julian. “It shouldn’t even matter that I’m married at all. All that should matter is that I told you to leave me alone because I wasn’t interested.”

“Did you tell him about me?” A note of panic had crept into Zulak’s voice.

Julian rolled his eyes. “Minister Garak has far bigger fish to fry than you.”

Zulak blinked. “…fish?”

“Uh, sorry. It’s a Terran expression. It means he has more important matters to deal with.”

“But he was in the _Obsidian Order_. Do you even understand what that means?”

“I know exactly what it means,” said Julian sharply. “And I assure you, that if I thought for one second that he was still the kind of man willing to do - whatever it is you think he might do to you - then I wouldn’t be here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to see.”

Claran turned the video off. “I saw no reason to pursue the matter further at that point. But I think that Zulak has been stewing in her own paranoia for the last few weeks. I believe that Julian’s confidence in your character only persuaded her that her continued safety is contingent on Julian’s presence. With him off-world for the week, she decided the best course of action was to throw herself on my mercy and confess everything. Apparently Marratt sent her to seduce a human doctor involved with a Cardassian, but did not tell her what Cardassian he was involved with. She claimed that she only did it because Marratt was extorting her, and she wanted me to convey to _you_ her apologies.” Claran’s lip curled in distaste. “I told her that you were the not person she should be apologizing to, but she seems to think of Julian primarily as your possession. I think I might transfer her to the Northern Continent.”

Garak wondered if this was purely because of Claran’s disapproval of the woman, or if it was for her protection. Claran may think that Zulak had no business practicing medicine in her hospital, but she wouldn’t want her dead, and he was quite certain that Claran also remained unconvinced by Julian’s confidence in Garak’s character. Well, a little distrust between political allies had always been the Cardassian way. That Claran was concerned about Julian’s well-being was a point in her favor as far as Garak was concerned. She’d lost two sons, both doctors, during the war, and she’d quickly taken a liking to Julian during its aftermath. As much as she approved of his decision to remain on Cardassia, Garak suspected that she did not approve of his primary motivation.

“I’m sure Pelac could use the additional assistance,” said Garak.

“You don’t let a damn thing show if you can help it, do you?” said Claran. “I can’t tell if you’re angry or concerned or too consumed with plotting your next move against Marratt to feel anything at all. Does it bother you that someone you care for has been put in this position merely for the sake of embarrassing you? Or does it just annoy you to see someone else touching your things?”

“Tell me, my dear Minister Claran,” said Garak, smiling pleasantly, “would you believe any emotion I choose to project?”

Claran snorted. “Probably not. I can guess why he didn’t formally report Zulak’s behavior - it’s hardly the first time I’ve become aware of a situation like this through a third party. I do wonder, though, why he didn’t tell _you_ the full extent of it.”

“We prefer to avoid interfering in one another’s professional affairs, whenever possible.”

“I see.”

Garak rose. “Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Minister.” He paused at the door. “Julian prefers to be judged based on his own qualities, skills, and achievements, and does not want to receive either special treatment or censure based on his species or his connection to me. However, he does not always appreciate how… _unique_ his situation is, and that sometimes additional concern _is_ warranted. I can see that you understand this, even if he does not, and for that I thank you.”

“I know doctors,” said Claran. “We’re usually much better at caring for others than we are at caring for ourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Amsha Bashir tries to understand her son's decisions and gets to know her new grandson. Julian and Jadzia have a long overdue conversation.


	8. Chapter 6: Made of Little Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Back when I taught preschool,” said Richard, and Amsha could see Julian’s jaw clench reflexively, “plenty of children cried a bit their first day away from home. They get over it quickly enough, as long as their parents don’t coddle them.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sections of this (and some of the upcoming chapters) are from Amsha's POV, and her reflections on Julian's childhood contain a certain degree of self-righteous justification, rationalization, and ableism. (This is admittedly rather mild compared to half the stuff that crops up in Garak's POV, but since it's also more likely to hit closer to home for some readers, I would rather be overcautious in my warnings than not cautious enough.) 
> 
> There are some linguistic, archaeological, and other miscellaneous notes at the end.

Morning found them in the cramped bathroom, Galen perched on the counter watching with rapt attention as Julian applied a sonic depilator to his face. With all the power concerns at home, he’d taken to shaving with an old-fashioned safety razor, so the return to modern technology felt like a rare luxury. Aside from the occasional genetic anomaly, most Cardassians didn’t have the ability to grow facial hair (or any other body hair, for that matter), so naturally Galen regarded these various processes with great curiosity. Julian had _thought_ that he’d more or less given up on privacy when he decided to move in with an ex-spy, but parenthood had eroded it down to another level entirely. At least Galen didn’t make smug comments about the inconveniences of maintaining basic hygiene in a human body.

“Do Romulans have face fur?” asked Galen.

“Facial hair,” corrected Julian. The Kardasi term Galen had used was considered a little derogatory, and Julian wondered where he had picked it up. “Yes, their patterns of body hair are very similar to humans.”

“Does that mean that I’ll have to do that someday?” Galen was staring at the floor now.

“I’m not sure. I suppose we’ll find out when you’re a teenager,” said Julian, with deliberate nonchalance. The prospect of growing ‘face fur’ must strike Galen as yet another thing that would set him apart from his Cardassian peers, and there wasn’t much Julian could do to reassure him. It was always hard to anticipate what changes puberty might wrought in hybrid children. It was one of those phenomena he had previously regarded with intellectual interest. Now it occurred to him that raising adolescents was infamously difficult even when you knew what to expect, and there wasn’t an abundance of literature available on Romulan ontogeny outside the Romulan Star Empire.

When he was finished, he bundled Galen into a hat and jacket. They were meeting his parents and Jadzia for breakfast in the replimat in a few minutes. Logically, there was no reason to be so apprehensive. Galen was objectively in less danger of injury or psychological trauma with his grandparents on the station than he was at school on Cardassia. He would never be more than a com-link, turbolift, or emergency transport away from the infirmary. Everything was going to be _fine_.

* * *

Amsha shielded her eyes from the bright holographic sun glaring off the expanses of pale holographic sand and broken pots of Umm el-Qa’ab. Galen gingerly held out a carrot to an equally holographic African wild ass and snatched his hand back as soon as the vegetable had been seized by large equine teeth. The domestic donkey standing next to it brayed in apparent envy. Galen started at the noise, but immediately asked Richard for another carrot.

The Abydos Archaeological Museum had an extensive exhibit on the domestication of donkeys. Galen found the displays of 5,000-year-old skeletons fascinating, and was quickly overcoming his nerves around the ‘living’ specimens. The real museum did have its own small herd of donkeys, and even a few African wild asses, though the latter were more carefully monitored than their holographic recreations. (The species had gone extinct in the mid-21st century, been revived through late-22nd century cloning, and the 24th century descendants were not the hardiest of creatures.)

It wasn’t riding camels at Giza, but in all likelihood Julian would take him to the real Giza some day (it was part of the standard tour of Earth’s most famous monuments that all alien visitors to the planet went on). Amsha doubted he would ever take Galen to the real Abydos; he despised any place that had featured prominently in his early childhood.

“None of my past hosts have been here before,” said Jadzia. “It’s beautiful.”

The Bashirs were babysitting Galen, and Jadzia was babysitting the Bashirs. It hurt that Julian couldn’t even trust them to look after a small child for a few hours.

Amsha chuckled. “I appreciate it now, but I wouldn’t have agreed with you when I was a teenager. I grew up about 50 km from here, in Sohag.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I spent the better part of my childhood hiking the Tenaran Ice Cliffs on Trill, but I didn’t find them awe-inspiring until after I was joined. It’s a matter of perspective.”

“My perspective at sixteen was mostly focused on how unfair it was that unaccompanied minors can’t use a transporter without their parents’ permission.”

“We have the same law on Trill. Curzon was very good at forging the permission forms. I wouldn’t exist if he’d gotten caught. The Symbiosis Commission traditionally frowns on that kind of thing.”

“My friends and I limited our rebellion to hanging out behind the Shunet after school and sublimating snakeleaf in the back of an old Class 2 hovercraft.” Amsha shook her head. “We’re lucky none of us ever wandered off into the desert and dehydrated.”

For the most part, they’d just painted themselves with henna and giggled about boys (with the exception of Zaynab and Lingxin, who were more interested in snogging each other). She’d spent her adolescence filling sketchbooks with drawing after drawing of the same landscapes, temples, mosques, hieroglyphs, ancient gods, goddesses, saints and kings: Isis and Horus in the Seti Temple, Anubis and Heqet in the Ramesses Temple, Maryam and Isa in the Red Monastery, calligraphy copied from the Sidi Arif Mosque. She’d had talent. Perhaps she could have developed it further if she hadn’t let her parents talk her into majoring in chemistry instead. In some other life perhaps she would be producing great works of art instead of just preserving and restoring them.

A holographic tour guide lifted Galen onto the diamond patterned saddle of one of the donkeys, then handed the lead to Richard. At the real Abydos Archaeological Museum, the donkey enclosure was adjacent to the on-site childcare facility for museum staff. Julian had never ridden the donkeys, though. The donkeys were one of the many things Julian never paid much attention to. To him, they had just been yet another feature of an incomprehensible landscape.

Amsha had enjoyed working at the museum. They’d been living in London at the time, while Richard made his third attempt at graduate school, and she’d relished the contrast of busy, crowded, foggy streets, always buzzing, pulsing with life, and the stark desert sands, quiet wadis, distant rock-faces, and endless skies. Julian was equally disengaged with both locales.

The preschool wasn’t included in the holographic recreation, for which she was grateful. The meetings there had been excruciating. Julian wasn’t talking. Julian hardly seemed to notice that the other children were there. Julian was still crawling while his cohorts learned to run. Amsha had grown to hate Julian’s teachers and doctors and all their condescending sympathy, and the judgment in their eyes. It was the same judgment Julian would make of them years later: it was their fault, they were unfit. She was to blame.

Julian’s ‘condition’ (to use the preferred euphemism), was caused by a rare spontaneous mutation of the X chromosome. Not her fault, they assured her. But it was undeniably her chromosome. And she did wonder. She routinely worked with any number of toxic chemicals. One undetected, infinitesimal glitch in their safety protocols and she might have been exposed without even realizing it.

Richard and the holographic guide led the donkey carrying Galen back over to them.

“This is Rokassa!” said Galen, bouncing in his saddle. “Ahmed said I could name her!”

Ahmed offered them a bland smile. “You can follow the trails to the magnificent archaeological sites of ancient Abydos, including the royal necropolis of Umm el-Qa’ab, the Temple of Seti I, the Temple of Ramesses II, and Shunet el-Zebib, the funerary complex of Khasekhemwy.”

Tourists did not take donkeys from the enclosure at the real Abydos, except on authorized group tours. They made their way slowly down the path to the Seti Temple, Amsha and Jadzia hanging back on the trail to chat whenever Galen and Richard wandered off to explore some interesting feature of the landscape.

“Do you know Mr. Garak well?” asked Amsha.

“I don’t think anyone knows Garak well. Except maybe Julian.”

“He’s married to my son and I know so little about him. I don’t even know when they started dating.”

“That depends on whether you think flirting with each other over lunch every week constitutes dating,” said Jadzia, raising both eyebrows suggestively.

“Well, when did that start?”

“About a week after Julian arrived on the station. Garak introduced himself in the replimat, and a few minutes later Julian came tearing into ops like a Ventaxian hellcat to tell everyone about it. ‘ _The spy talked to me, can you believe it? What does he want with me? What do I do? Isn’t this terribly exciting?’_ He was so thrilled at the prospect of espionage that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Garak probably just thought he was cute. They started having lunch together after that. Once a week, every week. It went on for _years_. The way they argued, half the station thought something was going on.”

“Because they were fighting?” asked Amsha, frowning.

“Not fighting, _arguing_. Cardassians like arguing so much they have about eight different words for it, depending on whether the tone is friendly or angry, and whether the people arguing are friends, family, lovers or enemies. If you don’t speak Kardasi, it can be hard to tell the difference between _certef’gehra,_ which is friendly bickering, and _certef’zIra_ , which is a form of flirtation. Believe me, after spending a month on Cardassia with those two, you’ll definitely know what _certef’zIra_ sounds like.”

Amsha considered this. “But you don’t know when it moved beyond flirtation, do you?”

“Oh, I can tell you exactly when their relationship _officially_ started: stardate 51253. Julian managed to talk Garak into going to my wedding as his date. When it _actually_ started, I don’t know. Julian’s much better at keeping secrets than he seems. And Garak is practically made of secrets.”

“Why keep their relationship a secret at all, though?”

“Do you really think Starfleet Command would be pleased if they found out that the Chief Medical Officer of a strategically critical space station was having a love affair with a known Cardassian spy? Even an exiled spy. And that’s not even getting into the fact that this is a _Bajoran_ station. Julian can be a bit naive, but he’s not a fool. They weren’t open about their relationship until the war began, after Garak started working _for_ Starfleet.”

What a mess her son had gotten himself into. When Julian sent them his terse and wholly inadequate message telling them of the drastic decisions he had made, _who_ he’d married had been the least of her concerns. But that had been when she’d thought that Garak was nothing more than what he’d seemed: a tailor and shopkeeper who happened to be Cardassian. His being Cardassian didn’t bother her: she wasn’t _prejudiced_. But she’d admittedly been a little perplexed.

The last time Julian had introduced them to anyone he was involved with had been when he was engaged to Palis, and it was hard to imagine anyone less like Julian’s petite, blonde, bubbly, stunningly pretty 25-year-old ex-fiancee. Were it not for his species, Mr. Garak of _Garak’s Clothiers_ would have struck her as wholly unremarkable during their brief encounter three years ago: polite, amiable (bordering on obsequious), middle-aged, with a stocky build and a tendency to talk with his hands. He was pleasant enough, and there was a certain flourish to his manners, but he was hardly the sort of person she would expect to draw her son’s eye.

Richard had asked him whether he knew their son, the CMO, which was his standard greeting at all the shops. “Dr. Bashir! Of course. One of my most cherished customers,” he’d said. “Such a charming young man. You must be very proud.” He’d given no indication that his interest in Julian went beyond his sartorial choices; he hadn’t suggested that they were friends, let alone that they had apparently been having lunch together regularly for the past five years.

Well, she had a better idea now of what had sparked Julian’s interest. But the clarification did nothing to lessen her concern: quite the reverse. She’d hoped Julian would grow out of his unfortunate attraction to dangerous situations, and instead it seemed that he’d just expanded it to include dangerous _people_.

Richard helped Galen down from his donkey, and they made their way up the stone walkway to a grand facade of a dozen square columns. Galen’s eyes grew wider as they came close enough to examine the divine figures and hieroglyphs on the walls.

“This temple was built over 3,500 years ago, during the 18th dynasty of Ancient Egypt’s New Kingdom period,” said Richard.

Actually it was the 19th dynasty, but Richard was never very good with numbers.

Silence descended as they entered the hypostyle hall. The temple often had that effect; it was one of the best preserved in Egypt, and breathtaking in its beauty. Small windows let in a few streams of light to reveal tantalizing glimpses of faces engraved in great limestone pillars. Even after three millennia, the ambiance still felt hallowed.

Amsha herself was the first to break the spell, as she began explaining some of the mythological scenes to Galen and Jadzia, smoothly sidestepping Richard whenever he tried to interject. (They had met during his six month stint as a masters-level archaeology student; whatever knowledge he had absorbed at the time was long dissipated, and hadn’t involved any Egyptology.)

They came to a scene depicting the mummy of Osiris, with Isis lamenting over his head and falcon-headed Horus at his feet. “Osiris was murdered by his brother, Set, who cut his body into pieces and scattered it all across Egypt,” said Amsha. “But his wife, Isis, turned into a bird and flew over the country searching for the pieces, and when she found them she gathered them up and reassembled them. She breathed life into his body and together they had a son named Horus, who defeated his uncle and became king of Egypt. His father Osiris became the god of the dead.”

That was a fairly watered-down version of the myth, which had several variations, most of which involved a good deal more incest, extra-marital liaisons, and male members being swallowed by fish. Amsha also thought it best not to explain why the bird-Isis in this relief was perched on her dead husband’s groin.

Galen traced the outline of a cobra coiled under the funerary tableau, and gazed up at Osiris with pursed lips. It was a comically pensive expression to see on a four-year-old, even one with pointed ears and eyes framed by ridges.

“Dead people always come back to life in human stories,” he said. “Like Osiris and Snow White. Does that really happen to humans?”

“No, _habibi_ ,” said Amsha. “That’s only in stories.”

“Cardassians never come back when they die. Not even in stories.” Suddenly, Galen jerked his head around, wild-eyed. “Where are Daddy and Yadik?”

“Your daddy is in the station’s infirmary and your yadik is at home on Cardassia.”

Without any further warning, Galen burst into tears. “No! No! No-no-no-no-no! They’re _dead_!” Galen’s tiny body was wracked by a series of violent, gasping sobs. “They’re both DEAD, I know it!” He collapsed onto the floor and wailed, tears streaming down his face and pooling against his eyeridges.

Amsha sunk to her knees and gathered him up in her arms. “Hush, habibi. Your parents are alive. They’re not in any danger.”

But Galen didn’t seem to hear her over the sound of his own weeping.

Computer,” said Jadzia, “end program.” Horus, Isis, and the deceased Osiris vanished into holographic oblivion.

* * *

When they reached the infirmary, Julian immediately paused his sample run and swept Galen up in his arms. Galen bawled into his shoulder, his Kardasi becoming too incoherent for the universal translator to make sense of. Julian kept up a steady stream of soft murmuring, mostly variations on “I’m fine” and “it’s alright, love.”

Galen’s sobs finally abated enough for Amsha to understand what he was saying. “I want Yadik. Is he alright?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s just at the ministry. We’ll see him in a few days.”

Galen sniffed. “Yadik says that he can check your lifesigns even when you’re away. Can you do that?”

“Ah, not from this distance,” said Julian. Amsha caught her husband’s eye and raised an eyebrow. “But we can call him, if you like.”

Galen sniffed again, and nodded. Dr. Sutikna offered them the use of the console in her office, and the closed door effectively prevented any eavesdropping. They waited in awkward silence for a few minutes.

“I don’t think Julian is going to blame you,” said Jadzia, gently, putting her hand on Amsha’s shoulder.

Richard scoffed. “I don’t see why not. He blames us for _everything_ else.”

“By the way Julian reacted,” said Jadzia, “I doubt this is the first time this has happened.”

Amsha could see that Richard was ready to continue arguing his point—that Julian would take any excuse to add another thing to his ever-growing list of their supposed transgressions—so she changed the subject. “What do you think Galen meant about—”

The door slid open. Galen and Julian were all smiles again, though Julian’s looked a bit strained.

“Why don’t you go with Jadzia, and she’ll get you a jumja stick?”

As soon as they were gone, the smile fell from Julian’s face and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said. “He hasn’t had an episode like that in a few weeks, so I didn’t think to warn you.”

“Back when I taught preschool,” said Richard, and Amsha could see Julian’s jaw clench reflexively, “plenty of children cried a bit their first day away from home. They get over it quickly enough, as long as their parents don’t coddle them.”

“And just how many of those children had mothers who went upstairs one day and never came back because the Jem’Hadar flattened their house?” snapped Julian. “A little separation anxiety is warranted under the circumstances, wouldn’t you say? If reassuring him of our continued existence allows him to get through the day without having a full-fledged panic attack, then I’d hardly call it coddling. This is a symptom of serious _trauma_.”

Julian collapsed into a chair and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Tentatively, Amsha put a soothing hand on his back. “You’re very good with him, Jules.”

“We try. There’s only so much we can do.” He sighed. “I know this is going to sound strange, but it’s not a _bad_ sign that he did this in front of you. It means that he trusts you.”

“You think he _trusts_ us?” said Amsha, dubiously.

“They used to punish him for crying at the orphanage. He wouldn’t have a tantrum like that at school. He bottles it up until Garak collects him for lunch - his school is for the children of government officials, so it’s in the same building where Garak works. His first day there, he just erupted in Garak’s office. He hadn’t seen me for a few hours so he was utterly convinced that I must be dead. I think Garak was far more alarmed than you were; he’d never spent much time around small children before. Luckily I was taking a lunch break myself when he called, and it usually only takes a few minutes to talk Galen down. He did the same thing a month ago when Garak had to spend two days on Cardassia III. I’m not surprised Garak told him that he can check my lifesigns remotely.”

“Can he?” asked Richard.

“I hope that was just a comforting lie,” said Julian, with a shrug, “…but I wouldn’t _entirely_ put it past Garak to covertly inject me with a subdermal biomonitor. Cardassians have some strange ideas about privacy. And Garak is a bit paranoid even by Cardassian standards.”

“Well, I suppose from a _spy_ that’s a sign of affection?” tried Richard.

Julian actually smiled at that. “I think I’ll thoroughly scan myself before I leave. We may need to have a conversation when I get back about what humans consider appropriate boundaries.”

* * *

Worf, in a characteristic show of single-minded Klingon devotion to training for upcoming challenges, had started a children’s _Mok’bara_ class as part of his fatherhood preparation regimen. A year ago, Julian would have found this amusing. Now, he had nothing but sympathy for Worf’s mission.

“And if they ever turn babysitting into an Olympic sport, Worf is going for gold,” said Jadzia.

Julian had some reservations about letting Galen attend the class tonight, especially since Jadzia had talked him into getting a drink with her instead of staying to watch the session. That his parents were there did not make him feel any better.

“Relax, Julian,” said Jadzia, “before you strain something.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re so tightly wound we could use you to hold open the docking clamps. A word of advice from one parent to another: being this overprotective is going to drive you crazy, and in a few years, it’s going to drive Galen crazy too.”

“I’m not overprotective.”

“I know you’re new to this whole marriage thing, but you know you’re not obligated to share your husband’s paranoia, right?”

“You’ve clearly never heard any Cardassian wedding vows.”

“Love, honor, and destroy each other’s enemies?”

“That sounds more like Klingon wedding vows.”

“No, Klingon couples destroy their enemies together.”

“Cardassians prefer stealth,” said Julian. “I prefer to avoid telling Garak who any of my enemies _are_. Safer all around, I think.”

“Do you have any enemies?”

“At the moment I have bigger issues with people being a little too… friendly.”

“The kind of friendly that Garak would be equally unhappy about?”

“Exactly. Most of the people working in civilian medicine on Cardassia are women, and most of them have never even met a human before. From most of my colleagues it’s just polite curiosity until the novelty wears off. But sometimes… I suppose it’s the appeal of the exotic. It was flattering, at first.”

“It’s flattering until you realize that they’re more interested in looking at you than listening to what you have to say. Especially if what you have to say is ‘no.’”

“I can’t help feeling like it’s some sort of karma. A taste of my own medicine, as it were.” Julian winced at his own choice of expression.

“You were very persistent,” said Jadzia, with more neutrality than he deserved.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Julian sighed. “Why did you put up with it?”

“Because I was worse,” said Jadzia. “Or rather, Curzon was. And unlike you, he never grew out of it.”

“Oh.”

“Of course,” said Jadzia, with a sly smile, “he also had a higher success rate, so it’s no wonder. If you’d come on to _him_ the way you came on to _me_ , he would have had you as an appetizer on the shuttle before we even made it to DS9.”

Julian chuckled. “I don’t think Curzon was my type.”

Jadzia raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re definitely not attracted to charming, intriguing, manipulative older alien men.”

“I’m very particular about which intriguing older alien men I’m attracted to.”

“Ah, so it’s only women you’re indiscriminate about.”

“Hey!” As if Jadzia was any more discriminating than he was. Occasionally, he still wished that they _had_ slept together before they’d gotten involved with their current partners, but most of the time he was sure it would have been a bad idea. “If I were that indiscriminate, I wouldn’t be having this problem.” He’d be having a whole different sort of problem, namely with his marriage. But really, if he were that easily swayed, he wouldn’t have opted for legally enshrined monogamy in the first place.

Jadzia sobered, at that. “Does the hospital have any reporting system?”

“Officially, there’s a no tolerance policy for sexual harassment. Dr. Claran takes these things very seriously. But it would be my word against hers, and I _am_ human. Besides, Cardassia desperately needs doctors. My discomfort isn’t worth other people’s lives.”

“What about other people’s discomfort? You might not be the only person’s she been persistent with.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It’s not always about attraction, Julian. Sometimes it’s about power. Her interest in you may be less about your exotic appeal and more about all the reasons you’re less likely to push back. Maybe she hasn’t targeted any of your coworkers, but what about patients? Vulnerable people may not feel like they can say no to someone who’s just saved their life.”

Julian’s stomach twisted. “If she does it again, I’ll report her. She stopped when she found out who I was married to.”

“Why didn’t you tell her that in the first place?”

“I don’t need Garak’s protection,” snapped Julian. “And his reputation isn’t an asset I want to use.”

He finished his drink and signaled to Quark for a refill. Jadzia let the subject drop.

“So,” she said, pausing to take a sip of her Saurian brandy, “ _can_ Garak monitor your lifesigns from his office?”

“See for yourself,” said Julian, removing his wedding ring.

“Gorgeous,” said Jadzia, holding it up for closer examination. “You certainly can’t fault Garak’s taste.”

The ring was simple and elegant, with a base of recycled beritium and a red trillium inlay. That Garak had a talent for jewelry design should not have come as a surprise. Julian had no idea how he’d gotten his hands on the red trillium, but he suspected the beritium had once been part of Tain’s sophisticated security system. Garak would have taken a perverse enjoyment out of melting it down and giving it as a love token to his human paramour.

“I should have been more suspicious when he suddenly decided to embrace a human tradition.”

Jadzia scanned it with her tricorder. “Clever, the way he positioned it around the inlay. Coming from Garak, I can’t decide if it’s romantic or just incredibly creepy.”

“It’s not as though I didn’t know who I was marrying,” said Julian.

“I think Galen may not be the only who suffers from a degree of separation anxiety.”

Julian thought of Mila, and Tora Ziyal, and even Tain. “You know, I’m not even upset with him.”

“That’s because you lose all sense of perspective when you’re in love.”

“At least I’m in good company,” said Julian, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

Jadzia smiled, but her expression seemed a little subdued. “There’s something I wanted to tell you. I’ve been offered the position of First Officer on the _USS Boas_. I’ll be starting as soon as my maternity leave is over. Worf is going to take a temporary leave of absence to take care of the baby.”

“Congratulations!” He was happy for her, truly. But it meant yet another of his friends would be deserting this corner of the Alpha Quadrant.

“It feels strange to be leaving. I never really expected this place to feel so much like… home. I wish Benjamin was here. I don’t like the idea of leaving without saying goodbye.”

“Say it anyway. He might hear you.”

Julian had said it to the wormhole when he left, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My (extremely limited, badly pronounced, and mostly forgotten) Arabic is a hodgepodge of two North African dialects and a smattering of classroom MSA (taught by a native speaker of Levantine Arabic, just for added confusion). Although I did learn a standardized transliteration system at some point, here I have mostly erred on the side of whatever seems to be the most common usage for spelling (e.g. Sohag instead of Suhaj). 
> 
> _Habibi_ : Arabic term of endearment, translates to 'my beloved,' 'my love,' 'my dear,' etc. 
> 
> _Umm el-Qa’ab_ : Mother of pots (normally I wouldn't bother translating place names, but this one amuses me)
> 
> The Kardasi argument terms are sort of mine, but they're derived from vocab in Vyc and tinsnip's English-Kardasi Dictionary. (I just squished them together and adjusted the definitions): 
> 
> _Certef’zIra_ : flirtatious argument. From _certef_ : to bicker, and _e’zIra_ : love (romantic)  
>  _Certef’gehra_ : genial bickering between close friends. From _e’gehra_ : love (close friends)
> 
> (I have a list of seven Kardasi argument terms in my notes. I don't know what the eighth is, but I'll take Jadzia's word for it that there is one.)
> 
> There is an excellent [virtual tour of the Seti Temple](https://www.360cities.net/image/inner-hypostyle-hall-temple-of-seti-1-abydos-egypt), if you’re curious (neither description nor photographs can possibly do it justice, of course). This is the specific [relief of Isis and Osiris](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Abydos_Tempelrelief_Sethos_I._36.JPG) described above. (And if you ever find yourself in the vicinity of Sohag, I also highly recommend a visit to [the Red Monastery](https://www.360cities.net/image/red-monastery-sohag-egypt).) In the present, there is no museum at the location described here, and as far as I know the donkey skeletons are not on display anywhere (although [they do exist](https://www.pnas.org/content/105/10/3715), and Abydos really is one of the earliest sites with evidence for donkey domestication). There are plenty of living donkeys in that vicinity today. The African wild ass is not extinct, but is [currently listed as critically endangered](https://www.iucnredlist.org/species/7949/45170994), so the possibility of their extinction this century is unfortunately quite plausible. 
> 
> I’ve been deliberately vague about giving baby Julian a diagnosis (which is probably a cop out), but what I had in mind is something similar to fragile x syndrome. With regards to Galen's reactions to his past trauma: I am not a doctor or a psychologist, and my research in that direction consists mostly of raiding my brother's undergraduate textbooks. Any inaccuracies should be ascribed to differences between human and alien physiology, rather than laziness on the part of the author. (But do let me know if anything seems glaringly off.) 
> 
> Next time: We return to Cardassia.


	9. Chapter 7: Welcome to Our House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I thought there wasn’t any slavery in the Federation.”_
> 
> _Amsha couldn’t help giggling at the expression on Julian’s face. “Maybe you two should be less concerned about Vulcans and more concerned about little Romulan ears.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with an illustration of sorts (embedded below, [larger version on Tumblr](https://vermin-disciple.tumblr.com/post/623277032020770816/fanart-cardassian-cottage)).

“Most of the neighborhood was destroyed by the Dominion,” said Julian. He had joined her in the room Amsha was sharing with Jadzia, after putting Galen to bed in their small quarters on the _Euphrates_. Having failed to warn her away from coming with dire pronouncements about the general situation on Cardassia, he now seemed intent on forestalling any shock she might experience when they beamed down to his _specific_ situation. It was more of a lecture than a conversation, but at least he was talking to her. “The only buildings still standing are gardeners’ and groundskeepers’ cottages, and a few toolsheds. The few owners who managed to survive, or their heirs, are too proud to live in their servants’ homes, which is just as well for their servants, so they’ve gone off to stay with relatives or friends outside the capital.”

“What happened to the owners of your cottage?”

“The property belonged to Garak’s father. He died a few years ago, but he hadn’t kept a gardener for about a decade before that, so the cottage was vacant.”

“Oh, but I thought he said…” started Amsha, before she thought better of it. She didn’t want to spoil their tentative truce by accusing his husband of lying to her.

Julian sighed. “What did he tell you?”

“I _thought_ he said that he’d never known his parents.”

To her surprise, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “What were his _exact_ words?”

She considered this for a moment before answering. “He said that according to the records, he’d never had parents. He also said that ‘Garak’ was one of the names given to foundlings.”

Julian now appeared openly amused by this. “That’s all absolutely true. Garak’s favorite kind of lie.” More seriously, he said, “I told you before that orphaned and illegitimate children have no status on Cardassia. It would be more accurate to say that orphaned children have no status, and illegitimate children have less. Some have gone so far as to call them a crime against the state, though that’s not saying much since most crimes on Cardassia are considered crimes against the state. Garak’s parents could not marry, so they never legally acknowledged him as their son. In the official records, he was registered as a foundling, apprenticed as a servant in his father’s household. Of course most abandoned children are illegitimate, but the distinction between presumed illegitimacy and acknowledged illegitimacy is an important one as far as Cardassian social mores are concerned. Foundlings are assigned surnames that are common among the serving class, which I suppose helps them avoid the stigma when they grow up. Garak’s mother was in the serving class herself, so some of his ancestors may well have been called ‘Garak.’”

“Why do you always call him that? By his surname, I mean?” She hadn’t once heard him refer to his husband by his first name; it had been bothering her all week.

“I don’t. But he doesn’t like other people using his first name, so I call him Garak if I’m speaking about him. It’s a Cardassian thing - they have all sorts of arcane rules about who is allowed to use what name in what context. Besides, I knew him as Garak far longer than I’ve known him as Elim, so it’s easy enough to switch.”

Amsha thought back to what Garak had said to them three years ago, when she and Richard had wandered into _Garak’s Clothiers_ while exploring the promenade on DS9. _“Dr. Bashir! One of my most cherished customers. Such a charming young man.”_ Had he been in love with her son, even then? Garak had told her that they hadn’t been involved yet, though she wasn’t sure now whether she should take that (or anything else he said) at face value. He had called Julian ‘cherished,’ and in retrospect perhaps this had not merely been the meaningless hyperbole she’d taken it for, but his own more literal truth. _That’s all absolutely true. Garak’s favorite kind of lie._ It seemed that she would have to pay close attention to his exact words in future.

As if reading her mind, Julian said, “I wouldn’t necessarily _trust_ everything Garak says. Let’s just say he has a complicated relationship with honesty.”

“You mean he lies to you?” said Amsha, trying not to sound too appalled.

Once again, Julian looked more amused than offended. “Flagrantly.”

* * *

The Federation news services had run endless features on Cardassia after the war, and Julian himself had warned her about the devastation, but it was one thing to see pictures of anonymous piles of rubble and equally anonymous blood-splattered faces, and quite another thing to see with your own eyes the piles of rubble surrounding _your son’s_ house, and to wonder if one of those blood-splattered faces had been your grandson’s mother.

The transporter deposited them on Julian’s doorstep, in front of a hexagonal brown door. Amsha stepped back to get a better look at the place. The cottage was in the back corner of a long yard, surrounded by tall stone walls. A large house had stood at the front, though now you could only judge its size by its collapsed remains. The walls that had previously fenced in the backyard had connected with the main house, and thus several meters on each side had been destroyed. Towards the back, the walls were still intact, so at least the cottage was somewhat protected.

The cottage itself was a squat, round building, with a pyramidal roof topped by curved spike. Its facade resembled a tan colored stucco, broken by evenly spaced vertical bars made of some sort of dark metal, creating an illusion of panels. The word ‘cottage’ evoked an image of charming English countrysides, rolling green hills and flowers, that seemed as far removed from this cottage as, well, as Earth was from Cardassia. There _were_ a few flowers, though, scraggly patches of small white blossoms littering the parched ground.

“We’d like to rebuild the main house some day, but the cottage suits us quite well in the meantime. It’s certainly more than many people have right now,” said Julian. He sounded a bit defensive, which wasn’t a great start. “Garak has started trying to revive the garden, but there isn’t much to see yet. Ah, speak of the devil.”

Her new son-in-law emerged from somewhere around the side of the house, wiping dirt off his hands with a damp cloth, but otherwise quite impeccable for someone engaged in garden maintenance.

“Yadik!”

Galen launched himself at Garak, who looked momentarily startled at having a small child collide with him at high speed. He picked the boy up and they touched the spoon-shaped ridges on their foreheads together. She realized that this was the same gesture she had seen in the photograph Garak had sent her, and she wondered if it had some added significance to Cardassians beyond being obviously affectionate. It hadn’t been mentioned in the brief guide to Cardassian culture given out to Federation volunteer aid workers.

“Daddy missed you,” said Galen.

“Did he?” said Garak, glancing over at Julian. “I certainly missed both of you.” He held out his palm to Julian, who pressed his own against it and interlaced their fingers, before kissing one of the scaled ridges descending from Garak’s ear. “Mrs. Bashir. How nice to see you again.”

His tone was all polite banality, but for a moment something sharp flashed in his eyes and she had the distinct impression that she was being incised.

“Thank you so much for arranging it.” She was examining him too, trying to put all her contradictory impressions together into some sort of coherent package: father, tailor, soldier, spy. Revolutionary and political reformer. The worst of the old Cardassia, the best of the new. Just the sort of person Julian _would_ find fascinating. As much as she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, she couldn’t help but think that it must have been terribly easy for him to seduce her son.

“How is the garden coming along, Elim?”

“You’ll be devastated to hear that the rokassa trees are going to survive after all.”

They made their way through the front door of the cottage, which opened into a hallway of pointed arches, each one glowing with a thin strip of red-orange light. Even so, the house seemed unnaturally dark to her eyes, and the lack of windows and vaguely sinister aesthetic made it feel as though she were walking into a neo-gothic holonovel. She half-expected to feel a chill in the air, but of course the house was quite warm (too warm for her taste, at least after living years in England). The hall was shorter than it looked, and ended in a small hexagonal room with a doorway on each of its six walls, three open (including the one they had just passed through), and three closed. “The bathroom is straight ahead. Galen’s room is to the right, and ours is to the left. The kitchen is through there,” he pointed to the open doorway on the adjoining wall to the right of the hallway, “and you’ll be staying in the living room, through here.”

Red and burnt orange continued to be the dominant colors, and low lighting the rule, though at least in here there were windows. The carpet was somewhat threadbare, its complex geometric design a bit faded. The furniture had a similar look - all very serviceable and well-kept, but clearly old and well-worn.

“Most of the furniture has been here as long as I can remember,” said Garak, as if reading her mind. “Which is rather longer than I care to admit.”

“We also salvaged a few things from the house,” put in Julian.

A computer terminal occupied most of one corner, and next to it sat a small table with several bolts of fabric stacked on top of it. In the other corner, a chair had been pushed aside to make room for a cot. A small black couch and coffee table completed the arrangement.

“It’s very cozy,” said Amsha.

Galen took her hand with a slight tug. “I want you to see my room!”

“Why don’t you show your nana the rest of the house first,” said Julian. Galen nodded dutifully. To her, Julian added quietly, “Once he gets you into his room, there’s no telling when he’ll let you out again.”

As Galen led her towards the kitchen, she overheard Garak say, “You are going to have to learn to say no to him eventually, my dear.”

“You’re one to talk,” retorted Julian. “You’re worse than I am.”

They bickered amicably in the background while Galen, who seemed to take his job as tour guide very seriously, explained everything in the kitchen to her in exacting detail. They were interrupted by the door chime, and Galen, distracted, scampered out into the hexagonal room to peer down the hallway as Garak went to answer the door. Garak returned accompanied by a skinny teenage girl with lank hair and large eyes. Galen quickly disappeared into his room.

“Willa! Is it your grandfather’s leg again?”

The girl nodded, and gave Amsha a curious look.

“Ah, this is my mother, Amsha Bashir,” said Julian. “This is Willa Jabez, one of our neighbors.” Julian went off to fetch his medkit and assured them that he would be back in a few minutes.

“That’s awfully optimistic,” said Garak, when the front door slid shut again. “It’s more likely to be a few hours.”

“Is it serious?”

“Oh, the leg was healing nicely the last time Julian treated him. Jabez just likes to talk, and he has a limited appreciation for the importance of anyone else’s time. Especially Julian’s.”

They sat across from one another at the kitchen table, and Amsha wondered if he felt as awkward about finding himself alone with her as she did. If he did, it certainly didn’t show. “Does he often make house calls?” she asked.

“Not as part of his official duties, but he’s very popular in his off hours. Our neighbors seem to think we’re running a clinic,” said Garak, and Amsha couldn’t tell whether this pleased or annoyed him. “It’s as much about satisfying their curiosity as it is about seeing to their medical needs. A human in the neighborhood is something of a novelty.”

That sounded like a warning. “And two?”

“You should expect a certain amount of attention, though it will probably be more curious than hostile. The only threat our neighbors are likely to pose is to your time. If there is one thing we Cardassians excel at, it’s conversation.”

Amsha wondered how Julian fared at that, by Cardassian standards. As a child, he would often follow her around the house jabbering incessantly about whatever his latest passion was. It never seemed to occur to him that other people might not share his enthusiasm for a given subject, whether it be pre-Surak Vulcan poetry or racquetball or a newly discovered species of Andorian archaea. It was the sort of thing his peers often found off-putting. “Do they…” Amsha paused to consider how best to phrase the question. “Is Julian well-liked, here?”

“His medical skills are certainly appreciated. But that isn’t what you mean, is it?” he added, with a knowing half-smile.

“No,” she said. “I’d guessed that much.”

Garak seemed to appreciate this response. “On Cardassia, verbosity is not considered a character flaw. Nor is taking pride in one’s knowledge or accomplishments. Humility is not regarded as a virtue, but a sign of weakness or duplicity.”

“Oh,” said Amsha, trying to decide whether that counted as an answer to her question or not.

“Where Julian errs,” Garak continued, “at least by Cardassian standards, is in being too straightforward. It’s considered rather gauche to always say precisely what one means. Perhaps you will have less difficulty with that than he does.”

Before she could ask him what exactly he meant by that, Galen returned to the kitchen, eyes shifting around warily. He’d retrieved his bear from his suitcase and was clutching it in his small, grey-green hands. “Did Daddy go to help Mr. Jabez _again_?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But he always takes so _long_ ,” said Galen. He crawled into Garak’s lap, his expression morphing into a full-fledged pout. “Why doesn’t he just go to the hospital while Daddy is at work?”

“Do you like going to the hospital, my dear?”

“Yes.”

Garak chuckled. “You like going to visit Julian at the hospital. Do you think you would like going to the hospital because you were hurt or sick?”

Galen considered this, then slowly shook his head.

“Wouldn’t you prefer it if Julian could just treat you at home?”

“Yes,” said Galen slowly. “But Daddy belongs to _us_ , not _him_.”

“We all belong to Cardassia,” said Garak. “And must serve her according to our abilities.”

Amsha wasn’t sure what to make of this exchange. She had accepted that Julian belonged to Galen the moment she saw them together, perhaps even the moment she’d learned of Galen’s existence. She was trying to accept the idea that Julian belonged with (not _to_ ) Garak, although a part of her could not help but feel that if he truly loved her son he would never have brought him to this desolate place. But something in Garak’s conviction that Julian belonged to _Cardassia_ now sent a chill down her spine. This explanation seemed to satisfy Galen, however, because he hopped down from Garak’s lap and came to the other side of the table to tug on her sleeve.

“Do you want to see _my_ room now?”

“Of course, _habibi_.” As if she could refuse those eyes anything.

Knowing what she did about Galen’s history, there was something terribly poignant about the pride he took in his bedroom and his small collection of personal possessions. Children on Earth could replicate practically anything their hearts’ desired (or their parents allowed), but to a child who had never had anything to call his own, this must seem like an unfathomable haven of luxury. He was especially pleased with a card that projected a looped holovid of two human children, a boy close to Galen’s age and a girl a few years older, who smiled and waved and sweetly welcomed Galen to his new home. “These are my friends, Molly and Yoshi,” he said, pointing to each of them, and allowing the message to repeat several times before he closed the card. She doubted that he’d ever actually met his ‘friends,’ but friends were evidently not something he had an abundance of, either.

It was a little over an hour before Julian returned. Galen heard him before Amsha did and was halfway down the hall even before the front door slid open.

“A slight infection. Luckily nothing that required additional equipment to heal.” To Garak, he added, “Oh, and he thinks that I should leave you and marry his niece.”

“So you’re no longer a scourge to Cardassian society, then?”

“Evidently not. Not today, anyway.” Julian sat down wearily on the couch. “Willa managed to get into the cellar of that place on the corner. She said she’d give you first pick of whatever she’s salvaged if you make her a new dress. I’m not sure we should be encouraging her, though. She was covered in dermal abrasions.”

“In that case, she could use something more practical than a dress.” Julian gave him an irritated look. “There are far more dangerous occupations she could choose, my dear.”

“True enough. I doubt she’s found anything you can use, but _she_ could definitely use some new clothes,” said Julian, with a sigh. “Whose turn is it to make dinner?”

“Mine,” said Amsha, firmly. Julian gave a token protest, but didn’t put up much of a fight. She’d brought a few stasis tubes from Earth packed with as many fresh vegetables as they could hold. Galen found these fascinating, so she set him to the task of shelling peas, mostly to keep him from getting underfoot. Julian and Garak parked themselves at the kitchen table and promptly started arguing about _The Viridescent Heart_ , a classic of 22nd century literature she’d never bothered to read.

“What is it about Vulcans that humans find so alluring, anyway? I’ve never understood the attraction.”

“That’s not remotely fair! _Some_ humans find _some_ Vulcans attractive. It’s not a species-wide biological imperative. Or are you just put out that more of us aren’t enamored with Cardassians?”

“Come now, my dear, your romantic literature of the last three centuries features Vulcans more than any other species, and that’s not even getting into your more prurient media.”

“That’s just a reflection of broader literary trends. Vulcans were the first aliens to make contact with Earth and they’ve maintained a significant presence there ever since. Of course they feature prominently in our popular fiction, some of which happens to be romantic.”

“That doesn’t entirely explain the enduring success of _Vulcan Love Slave_ volumes 1 through 15.

“ _Debbie Does Denobula_ had 18 volumes.”

“There are Vulcans in that one too, or so I’ve heard. Besides, _Vulcan Love Slave_ is the one with the holonovel adaptation.”

Galen turned around on his stool at the counter, still holding a pea pod. “I thought there wasn’t any slavery in the Federation.”

Amsha couldn’t help giggling at the expression on Julian’s face. “Maybe you two should be less concerned about Vulcans and more concerned about little Romulan ears.”

“Slavery of any form is illegal in the Federation,” said Julian, collecting himself. “ _Vulcan Love Slave_ was a work of Terran… fantasy from about 300 years ago. Humans and Vulcans didn’t know much about each other back then, so the author just made things up about Vulcan culture to suit her story.”

“Like Vulcans having slaves?”

“…Yes.”

“Why didn’t she just ask a Vulcan about it so she didn’t get things wrong?”

“Sometimes when people don’t understand each other, they don’t get along very well, and that can make it difficult for them to ask each other questions. Some people are afraid of anyone who seems different from them, and that makes it easier for them to believe bad things about them, even if they’re not true.”

“Like how Rosali says that human parents don’t really love their children the way Cardassian parents do?”

“ _Exactly_ like that.”

Satisfied, Galen turned back to the peas, while Julian and Garak shared a dark look across the table.

“Who is Rosali?” asked Amsha.

“He’s in the ministry school,” said Galen, without looking at her. “His yadik is one of the ministers.”

“He’s the son of Minister Evek,” said Garak.

“That’s certainly disheartening,” muttered Julian.

Amsha searched her memory for the familiar name. “Isn’t he one of the ministers in favor of working with the Federation?”

“Oh yes, he’s been one of the staunchest supporters of accepting Federation assistance since the end of the war. He’s quite reasonable for someone from the military.” Garak’s voice exuded irony, and perhaps a trace of bitterness.

 _He did marry a human. That’s still not entirely respectable on Cardassia._ What had it cost him to marry her son? She’d given a great deal of thought to how much Julian had given up for Garak; it hadn’t really occurred to her to consider the reverse.

Dinner passed without incident, the potential tension muted by Galen, who was eager to relay to his yadik all his adventures on Deep Space 9. Amsha supposed it was too much to hope that they might consider moving back to the station. DS9 was hardly an ideal place to raise a child, but it would be a far more nurturing environment for him than _this_. Perhaps when he was older they could be convinced to send him to a Federation school.

After dinner, she sat on the floor with Galen and played a game of, much to her surprise, _Snakes and Ladders_.

“Miles and Keiko sent it,” explained Julian.

“Part of the Federation indoctrination initiative, no doubt,” said Garak, eliciting an exaggerated eyeroll from Julian.

The illustrations for each virtue and vice were captioned in Federation Standard, and Galen dutifully read these out with each roll of the dice, and only occasionally needed help with the pronunciation. At four, Julian hadn’t recognized the letters in his own name, and had to be kept away from board games like this, lest he swallow the pieces.

The adult Julian sat cross-legged on the couch, frowning down at a PADD. Garak disappeared into their bedroom, and reemerged a few minutes later clutching a garish piece of purple fabric.

“Hey, I _like_ that shirt!” said Julian.

“This shirt isn’t just a crime against fashion, it’s an actual crime. I write the laws now, so I should know. Believe me, I’m doing us both a favor. It would be terribly embarrassing if I had to have you arrested.”

“Yadik is only joking,” said Galen, to Amsha, with an air of solemn authority.

“The material will be much better served lining Miss Jabez’s new dress.”

“How come you never cannibalize your own wardrobe when you’re in the mood for charity?”

“My profession requires a more varied wardrobe than yours.”

“ _Charity_ is on one of the ladders,” said Galen, pointing to the board. Beneath the ladder, a Tellarite handed a bowl of soup to a bedraggled looking Klingon. “That means it’s a _virtue_.”

“See, even your Federation propaganda agrees with me,” said Garak.

“Oh, _fine_ ,” said Julian, raising his hands in defeat. “I didn’t realize our marriage contract included the stipulation that I’m no longer allowed to dress myself.”

“Perhaps you will learn to read legal documents more carefully, in future,” said Garak, applying a seam-ripper to the offending shirt with relish.

Galen began yawning midway through the second game. Julian and Garak shared a look that conveyed silent parental communication. As soon as the game ended, Galen cuddled up next to Julian on the couch and closed his eyes.

“Would you like me to read to you?”

Galen appeared to give the question serious thought, then he shook his head. “I want Yadik to read to me.”

Garak evidently anticipated this response, because he had started putting away his tailoring tools as soon as Galen relocated to the couch. “Say goodnight, dearest,” he instructed. Galen dutifully embraced Julian and Amsha in turn, and then tugged on Garak’s sleeve until Garak picked him up and carried him into his own room.

Julian watched them depart with a fond smile. “And he said that he wasn’t remotely suited to parenthood.”

Amsha didn’t trust herself to respond to that. More than once, Julian had accused her and Richard of being unsuitable parents. (Though only on those occasions when he was willing to acknowledge that they _were_ still his parents.)

The silence quickly became awkward. Amsha searched around for some neutral topic to discuss while Julian fiddled with his PADD. “Does it cool off much at night?”

“Not by much,” said Julian. “I must be adjusting to it, though. The station felt much chillier than I remember.”

“Does it get much hotter during the summer?”

“Last summer it was forty degrees and eighty percent humidity on average. Everyone kept commenting on how _pleasant_ it was.”

They managed another few minutes of banal conversation about the weather, which she supposed counted as progress.

“What sort of books does Galen like?”

“All sorts. I’ve been reading him old Earth fairy tales. And he’s very taken with talking animals, lately. He wasn’t sure what to make of them at first - Cardassians don’t really do anthropomorphism in their literature. Garak’s probably reading him some tedious didactic parable about serving the State.”

“Well, someone has to save his literary palate from _your_ influence, my dear.”

They both started. How Garak had managed to sneak up on them in such a small, quiet house was anyone’s guess.

“That was quick. He must be exhausted.” Julian rose from the couch, stretching, and moved to the doorway to attach himself to Garak’s arm. “Frankly, so am I. It’s been a long week. I think we’ll also turn in early.”

That sounded like code for, ‘Please excuse us while we go have sex,’ if she was any judge. Amsha wondered if she should have thought to pack earplugs. A decade ago they’d shared a two-room yurt with Julian and Palis on a beach on Casperia Prime, and it was not an experience she wanted to repeat. Julian had not wanted them there and had not been overly concerned about making them uncomfortable. Since all his efforts to dissuade her from coming on _this_ trip had failed, she _hoped_ that he would manage to conduct himself with some measure of maturity while she was here. Past experience, however, had taught her to expect a certain degree of adolescent rebellion from her son, whether he was 15, 25, or 35.

He’d been such a _good_ boy before he found out about the genetic enhancements: the star pupil at every school he attended, winning every award for scholastic achievement, the most valued member of every team - academic or athletic - he saw fit to join (most valued in terms of his contributions, anyway - popularity always seemed to elude him). Amsha still didn’t know how he had discovered it, though she supposed it didn’t matter much, now. It would have been easier for all of them if he hadn’t, especially in the immediate aftermath.

After they’d explained to him why they had done what they had, he’d stormed out of the house in a fury like they’d never seen before. (He’d always been such an easy going child.) The hospital contacted them just after sunrise to tell them that he had collapsed on the track at his secondary school. When they brought him home, he told them that he wanted to see how far he could run without stopping.

That had just been the beginning. He seemed determined to test all his body’s limits: how long could he hold his breath, how far could he swim, how much alcohol could he consume without passing out. Then there had been all the other infractions: sneaking out at night, sneaking girls (and occasionally boys) in, sometimes disappearing for days at a time. He never even seemed bothered about being caught. Being caught seemed to be the objective, more often than not. After nearly three years of this, it had been something of a relief to send him off to Starfleet Academy, even if it did give him the space to stop talking to them entirely for months on end.

Perhaps she had wanted to classify this latest series of decisions as another form of rebellion: leaving his career behind a few short years after his father had saved it, moving to a planet outside the Federation, eloping with a man who was not only significantly older but had a questionable and dangerous past. That Julian would cut himself off even more thoroughly from them just as he was starting a family of his own struck her as exceptionally cruel, and she had been determined not to allow it.

Now that she was here, Amsha realized it was worse than a rebellion against them: it had nothing to do with them at all. Even telling them about it had merely been an afterthought. When he said that he was too busy to return to Earth anytime soon, and that Cardassia was in too precarious a state to visit, he had not just been making excuses. This revelation did not make her regret coming here, however. If anything, it strengthened her resolve to do something to shorten the distance between them, because she was beginning to realize that she hardly knew her son at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how many modern versions of Snakes and Ladders (or Chutes and Ladders) still have virtues and vices on them. The Federation version described here was inspired by Victorian editions of the game ([for example](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e2/a0/91/e2a0916b2a3388d9271c748fcee03fdf.jpg)). Snakes and Ladders has been around for over a thousand years, so I figure it will still be around in the 24th century. 
> 
> Next time: Honestly, the next chapter is just gratuitous sex. (Although I wrote it, so it's more like gratuitous banter with some sex in it.)


	10. Chapter 8: Flying High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Right now I’d prefer less of the metaphorical thrusting and more of the literal variety.”_

As soon as they were alone, Julian practically threw himself at Garak. “If I ever have to do that again,” he said, in between increasingly fervent kisses, “I’m bringing you with me. I can’t be expected to interface with my parents _and_ give up sex for a week.” 

“Oh, my poor _darling_. How you’ve _suffered_.” The tone was all mocking sarcasm, but since Garak’s hands were making short work of all his buttons and zippers, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “You could have availed yourself of the holosuites, you know.” 

“I seem to recall you being intensely jealous of Agent Bashir’s holographic female companions.” 

“Well, I can’t say I enjoy watching you lavish attention on vapid photonic projections,” said Garak demurely, “but I’m not going to begrudge you your erotic fantasies, especially if I’m not there to indulge them.” 

“Mmm, I wouldn’t mind watching _you_ go at it with Agent Komananov or Mona Luvsitt.” He’d found that latter idea particularly effective in the shower a few days ago. 

“Why would I want either of your ludicrously named playthings when I could have you instead?” He circled one of Julian’s nipples with his fingertip. “And before you suggest any improvements to the scenario you’re concocting, remember we’ve already established that I’m not interested in sharing you with anyone, real or imaginary.” 

“Oh well,” said Julian, nuzzling Garak’s neck. “Any chance of getting you back into that tux some day?”

“Perhaps that could be arranged. Some day. But not tonight.” 

“Definitely not. You’re wearing too many clothes as it is.” Julian’s shirt was already lying on the floor somewhere and his fly was hanging open, but so far Garak had refused to cooperate with his efforts to even the score. Instead of complying now, he flashed Julian one of those devilish smiles and shoved him up against the wall. Then he dropped to his knees, taking Julian’s trousers down with him. Julian let his head fall back with a thud as the man put that unbelievably talented tongue of his to good use. Within minutes he was a complete wreck, shaking and clenching his fists in Garak’s hair as he came. Garak stood, looking far too composed and more than a little smug. Well, anyone who performed fellatio with such pronounced skill and relish was entitled to a bit of smugness. Julian pulled him closer and kissed him, partially to give himself something to hold onto since his legs seemed to have turned to jelly.

“Feeling better?” 

“God, yes. You are incredibly good at that.” 

“Thank you. Now be a good boy and get into bed before you fall over.” 

For once, Julian did as he was told without protest, kicking his trousers off along the way. Before joining him, Garak finally removed his own clothing, though unlike Julian he took the time to toss his into the garment reprocessor. Garak was intent on taking his time tonight, exploring every inch of Julian’s body so thoroughly that Julian felt like a strange combination of laboratory specimen and lollipop. Garak must have missed him far more than he’d let on, if he was willing to go this long using his mouth for something besides speech. Julian’s only complaint about being the subject of all Garak’s concentrated attention was that in his current position he was effectively prevented from getting his hands on (or in) any of the most sensitive bits of Cardassian anatomy. He began massaging Garak’s neck ridges, gently at first, then increasing the pressure until Garak stopped tonguing his navel and groaned against his stomach. 

“Isn’t there anything I can do for you?” asked Julian, once Garak had worked his way back up to Julian’s neck. He emphasized the point by stroking Garak’s ajan, which was slick with fluid and offered no resistance to his probing fingers. Garak shuddered at the contact and immediately everted against Julian’s waiting hand. 

“I was in the most dreadfully dull meeting this morning,” said Garak, “and I entertained myself by composing a mental list of all the places I would rather be. ‘Inside Julian Bashir’ was right at the top.” 

“That sounds like a very distracting list.”

“Oh, it was. Since the rest of the day was equally tiresome, I confess that my mind kept returning to it, especially that first item. If you had been able to meet me for lunch, I think I would have disabled the security system in my office and had you on the desk.” 

“You think I would have gone along with that, do you?” 

“I have no doubt that you would. One of your more endearing characteristics is that you have no self-control whatsoever. You practically fall out of your clothes the minute I touch you. I think it would take very little coaxing to get you bent over my desk, _begging_ me to fuck you. The threat of discovery would no doubt appeal to your sense of adventure. See, you’re getting hard again just imagining it.” 

He was getting hard again because Garak was pressed up against him and fondling him and speaking low in his ear in a tone that practically oozed promises of sexual ecstasy. Frankly, he could have been reciting the new Cardassian constitution and Julian would have been turned on, not that he was about to admit it. (Garak might actually try it, for one, and Julian would probably wind up developing some sort of perverse Pavlovian reaction to Cardassian legalese). He also suspected that Garak might be right about him, and that the primary impediment to this imagined scenario was Garak’s sense of moral obligation to Cardassia and not his own sense of self-preservation or indeed self-restraint. 

“Too bad we don’t have a desk in here.” 

“There’s always the dresser,” said Garak, “but I daresay the bed will be more comfortable.” 

“Agreed.” 

The only time they’d actually engaged in any semi-public acts of indecency had been during his parents’ first visit to DS9. He’d been trying to avoid them by ducking into _Garak’s Clothiers_ during his lunch hour, and on a whim, he’d suggested that Garak close up shop for a ‘private fitting.’ His parents always seemed to bring out a reckless adolescent streak in him. He’d also amused himself wondering what Zimmerman would do if he knew that the LMH model he clearly had nothing but disdain for was on his knees in a dressing room sucking off a morally questionable former Cardassian operative. Starfleet’s best and brightest, indeed. 

Why Garak had gone along with it he could only guess. In spite of his fondness for spinning out scenarios for sexual exploits in inadvisable locations, Garak had never tried to initiate anything with him anywhere more exotic than their couch. But then, those had been early days, when their relationship was in an uncertain state of transition, its new parameters still undefined. They’d both thought there was no future in it, whatever it was. 

And yet, three years later he found himself lying on a bed in Cardassia City having his prostate expertly massaged, not by his clandestine lover but by his _husband_. None of the nostalgia he’d been wallowing in for the last few days could make him regret coming back to this. The station wasn’t _home_ anymore - this was, Cardassia was, _Elim Garak_ was. 

The rhythm of Garak’s well-lubricated fingers increased in tempo, pulling Julian’s mind back to the present, where his body was grinding instinctively against the mattress. He stifled a plaintive sound against the pillow when the movement stopped. 

“Would you like me to continue, or do you want more?”

“Mmm. Yes. More,” said Julian, voice muffled.

He felt rather bereft when Garak removed his fingers.

“I want to hear you say it,” said Garak sweetly, somewhere close to his ear. “Say, ‘Elim, my love, I want to feel your _prUt_ inside me.’”

Julian turned his head to give him his most alluring smile, and batted his eyelashes for good measure. “Elim, _my love_ , stop being an insufferable twat and get on with it already.” He got his arse smacked for that.

“ _Well_ ,” said Garak, pulling away from him, “if you’re going to be _uncooperative_ …”

In a flash, Julian pinned him down and straddled him. Leaning down so that he could whisper directly into Garak’s ear, he said, “I think you’d be very disappointed if I was _too_ cooperative.” He bit down hard on a neck ridge and felt Garak’s fingers clench, digging into his hips. Repeating the action rewarded him with a low moan. When he drew back a little, Garak was gazing at him as if entranced, with parted lips and darkened ridges. Most of Garak’s expressions were performative, rarely a true reflection of what he was thinking or feeling at a given moment, so there was nothing Julian loved better than seeing him like this. There was no subtext, no subterfuge: just unmasked, uncomplicated desire, an expression reserved for him and him alone. 

Julian had to sit up and lean over to retrieve the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand. (This was one of the few personal products they did not use sparingly these days. It wasn’t worth the potential humiliation of having to explain his anatomy to one of his Cardassian colleagues while he walked them through the procedure of repairing anal fissures.) Garak took advantage of his momentary instability to flip him onto his back. This maneuver Julian was very inclined to cooperate with, so he wrapped his legs around Garak’s waist in an encouraging sort of way and tried to look fuckable. Admittedly that didn’t require much effort on his part, since he had it on good authority that Garak always thought he looked fuckable.

“Oh, I could never find you disappointing. Aside from your obstinate refusal to appreciate great works of literature.” 

“You’re welcome to lecture me again on everything I misinterpreted in _The Exultation of Obedience_ , as long as you can multitask.” 

Garak had buried his face in Julian’s neck again, and made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a sigh as he entered him. But when he raised his head, he’d schooled his expression back into an affected smirk. “I could, but I fear you wouldn’t be listening. Sexual pleasure seems to have a detrimental effect on your powers of comprehension, not to mention your coherency.”

“You don’t think much of my counterarguments no matter how articulate I am.” 

“That’s because your counterarguments are naive or downright asinine more often than not. But that’s not the point. I make an observation. You disagree. I counter. You object. The point is in the thrust and parry of a good debate.”

“Right now I’d prefer less of the metaphorical thrusting and more of the literal variety,” said Julian, rocking his hips to emphasize the point. There were two problems with allowing (not to mention asking or begging) Garak to fuck him instead of the other way around. The first was that Julian’s anatomy was rather more delicate, and required more preparation to render the activity pleasurable rather than painful. The second problem was that Garak was the sort of predator who liked to play with his food before devouring it.

“Yes, and the trouble with _that_ is that in another minute or so I’m not going to get anything out of you but ‘ _Oh God, Elim, fuck me harder_ ,’ and ‘ _Oh Elim, come inside me_.’ I can hardly construct an effective counterpoint to something like that.” 

(He could, in fact. If Julian said ‘faster’ it was even odds that Garak would slow down instead. It was just Julian’s luck that the best sex he’d ever had in his life was also frequently the most infuriating. These two facts may even have been related.) 

“Why, it’s tantamount to _cheating_ on my part,” said Julian. 

“Precisely. Especially when you look so exquisitely beautiful.” Garak made the compliment sound more like an accusation, as if Julian’s purported beauty was a ploy he had just uncovered. His eyes, though, suggested that Julian was about to get vigorously pounded into the mattress anyway, so it was an effective ploy nonetheless. 

“Ah, afraid you’re going to—”

The alarm on Julian’s tricorder went off. Julian used a particularly choice Kardasi swear word he’d picked up recently. 

“Such language. You ought to be more selective about who you learn new vocabulary from.” 

“Just you and Preloc, you mean?” said Julian, rolling his eyes. “I notice it doesn’t bother you if I swear in English. Could you hand me the tricorder, please?” 

Garak didn’t quite manage to stifle his groan of frustration as he extracted himself from Julian’s person and retrieved Julian’s tricorder. “Kardasi is a far more elegant language and shouldn’t be sullied with vulgarities.” 

“Hmm. Well, Galen’s awake, but he doesn’t appear to be having a panic attack. It’s probably just all the disruption of the past few days. Or, uh…” A slightly guilty expression crossed Julian’s face. 

“What did you do, dearest?” asked Garak. 

“He didn’t want to sleep in his own room when we were on the station. I didn’t have the heart to force the issue.”

“You’re a good deal warmer than the standard issue blankets on that floating icicle, so I’m not unsympathetic to the child. But you do realize that you’ve established an unfortunate precedent.” 

“I’m starting to think that the Cardassians in my life only love me for my elevated body temperature,” said Julian. “He might go back to sleep on his own.” 

“Experience suggests otherwise. I’ll go and check on him. You look too… dissipated.” This sounded more like a compliment than a criticism, what with the way Garak allowed his eyes to wander hungrily over Julian’s body before he inverted with a slight wince, and went to retrieve a robe from the closet. 

Julian crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the ceiling, reciting the digits of pi to himself while he waited. He was only 206 numbers in when Garak returned. 

“Your mother intercepted him,” said Garak, sliding back under the covers and pulling Julian toward him, so that Julian’s back was flush against his chest. “I’m starting to see the merits of having her as a house guest. Though I get the impression she doesn’t like me much.” 

Julian shivered as Garak’s mouth made contact with the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Disliking your son-in-law is a fine upstanding Terran tradition. I wouldn’t take it personally.” 

“That’s no good at all. If your mother is going to dislike me, it should be earned and specific, not generalized and impersonal.”

“I’m really not interested in talking about my mother right now. Or anyone else who dislikes you, for that matter. I _like_ you, and I assure you it is _very_ specific.” 

“But not in any way earned, my love,” Garak purred. 

Julian wanted to respond with something sentimental, but Garak’s clever hands were making short work of his higher brain functions again, and all he managed was an indecipherable diphthong. As much as Garak liked to insist that he was perfectly capable of carrying on an intellectual conversation even in the throws of passion, tonight he quickly lost interest in providing a running commentary on the proceedings. The interruption had evidently shifted his priorities away from the cerebral and towards the purely sensual. Julian’s skin would be worse for it in the morning, since without something else to occupy his mouth Garak devoted himself to lavishing attention on Julian’s neck, back, and shoulders, alternately kissing, sucking, and nibbling, then forgetting himself entirely at the moment of climax and clamping his teeth down on Julian’s trapezius. Julian would have been less than amused by this, if Garak hadn’t managed to time it precisely to coincide with Julian’s own orgasm, and as such he hardly noticed until the bruise set in.


	11. Interlude: Falling Into Nothingness, or Flying Into Something So Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The tragedy of it is, Doctor, I did notice. I merely… misinterpreted.”_

The first time they fell asleep with their arms wrapped around each other had been the night they’d returned from escaping the Dominion prison. There hadn’t even been any sex preceding it. (In retrospect, that was probably for the best, since they had both been in rather sorry shape that night, and even the next morning had not exactly been the stuff of pornographic fantasy. Being incarcerated for four weeks and then being confronted with unfamiliar alien anatomy first thing in the morning had not done wonders for his performance, though at least the embarrassment had been mutual, and eager desperation had helped to smooth over the awkwardness.) 

After months of fantasizing about the simple pleasure of being in his own bed, in his own quarters, Julian found he just couldn’t fall asleep there. His Changeling replacement had _changed_ things. Not by much, really. Perhaps someone without an eidetic memory wouldn’t have noticed all the little ways his quarters had been altered. A stack of PADDs he had left on the coffee table before the conference was still there, but stacked just a _bit_ more neatly. _It_ had kept everything meticulously clean. It hadn’t slept in his bed, but it had changed the _damn_ sheets. 

Trying to sleep there was like trying to sleep in a haunted house (if you believed in that sort of thing). He kept waiting for something to _move_ of its own accord. The Jem’Hadar had kept him in solitary confinement for a week and he had nearly gone mad. The silent darkness of his quarters brought him back there, and for a moment he thought he _was_ mad — Garak’s and Worf’s arrival, their escape, it had all just been a product of his deranged imagination, as he lay there in that horrible black pit. He turned the light back on, feeling childish, but in spite of his exhaustion sleep would not come. 

An impostor had replaced him for a month, and no one, not even his dearest friends, had noticed. Surely not even a Changeling could give a performance that was completely flawless, could they? But no one in his life was close enough to him to pick up on the subtle clues. The emptiness of his quarters drove that point home. He thought of going to the O’Briens’ and asking to stay in their spare room, before he remembered that Kirayoshi had been born while he was in the Gamma Quadrant, and the spare room was now a nursery. With a new baby to worry about, the last thing Miles needed was a broken friend camped out on his couch. Next, he thought of going to the infirmary and replicating himself a sedative. But he couldn’t stomach having to explain himself to the nurses on the night-shift. Then, he thought of Garak. 

No, he’d thought of Garak _first_ , and dismissed the idea out of habit. That was a dangerous road and he knew it. 

But something had changed between them, hadn’t it? After years of trying to pick apart all Garak’s lies, Garak had let him listen to the unveiling of his first, his most fundamental secret. It felt like a declaration. Of _what_ , Julian wasn’t sure, which was par for the course with Garak. But he was certain that it meant _something_. So he soon found himself standing outside Garak’s door in his pajamas, wondering belatedly if Garak would even open it, let alone allow him in. Garak had deliberately revealed his parentage to Julian, but revealing his claustrophobia had been beyond his control, and Garak despised being seen as vulnerable. His usual course of action when he had inadvertently revealed something he considered a weakness was to retreat, lick his wounded pride and return a few days later pretending that nothing had happened. 

But the door slid open, eventually, and if Garak was surprised to see him, it didn’t show in his expression. He’d only meant to ask Garak if he could sleep on his couch for a night or two. Instead, everything he’d been feeling just burbled out of him like he’d sprung a leak: how much it had hurt to realize that no one had been looking for him because no one had known he was gone, the irrational sense of betrayal, the bitter disappointment. “I know I’m being unreasonable about this. If even the _spy_ I have lunch with every week didn’t notice the difference, how much should I expect from anyone else?” 

Garak’s response was not immediate, and when he spoke, he sounded nearly as bitter as Julian felt. “The tragedy of it is, Doctor, I _did_ notice. I merely… misinterpreted.” 

As it turned out, the Changeling had not had lunch with Garak every week. The month had instead been full of last minute cancellations and empty apologies. They rarely conversed unless there were other people present. It had made every excuse to avoid being alone with Garak, even across a replimat table.

“I assumed that our friendship no longer held your interest,” said Garak, not meeting Julian’s eyes.

“It knew you were a threat,” said Julian. “If it had slipped up, even a little, you would have picked up on it.” 

“Even when I’ve failed you, you’re still trying to reassure me.” Garak took his hand and held it the way he had years before, when he’d asked Julian to forgive him. “You’ve been such a good friend to me, my dear. You’re always trying to take care of me.” 

“I’m a doctor. It’s what I’m supposed to do.” 

“You’ve done far more than I deserve. No, don’t argue with me. Just allow me to return the favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Garak offers Amsha some advice.
> 
> ETA: I've written an expansion of this scene (from Garak's POV) for Trektober 2020: [Freedom's Just Another Word](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016396)


	12. Chapter 9: Chaos Never Happens If It's Never Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eking life out of Cardassia’s poisoned soil required patience, diligence, knowledge, and determination. Creating beauty from such limited stock demanded not just artistry but a flair for the dramatic. Getting his hands dirty would never feel so clean again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Allusions to teenage sexual activity and suicide (both occurring offscreen and decades in the past).

_The walls were collapsing all around him. Time seemed distorted. Rubble poured down on him in slow motion, and yet too fast for him to move, to_ flee _, to do anything at all but gasp for air. An inexplicable warmth suffused him - too warm for Tzenketh autumn - was it true that hallucinating heat was a sign of impending death?_

Garak’s eyes snapped open, but he forced himself to remain still. His breathing sounded shallow and unsteady to his own ears. Julian was wrapped tightly around him, radiating the heat that had penetrated his dream. Ordinarily he would have found it comforting, but right now it just seemed to exacerbate his sense of confinement. He tried to focus on counting each breath, exhaling on odd numbers, inhaling on even ones.

Julian stirred. “Morning,” he mumbled into Garak’s chest, voice thick with sleep. He tried to snuggle even closer, and Garak couldn’t stop his own body from jerking in discomfort. Julian’s eyes snapped open.

“Are you alright?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Julian had propped himself up to give Garak a cursory examination, and now he backed further away so they were no longer in contact, leaving Garak feeling torn between humiliation and relief. “Your heart is racing, your breathing is ragged, your pupils—”

“Yes, yes, point taken, _Doctor_. But I will be fine in a few minutes, and in the meantime your hovering doesn’t help matters.”

“Alright, Elim,” said Julian, in that soothing tone that Garak found incredibly grating, “if it helps, I’ll give you some space.” He turned the lights on and disappeared through the door that connected their room to the bathroom. Garak concentrated on his own breathing and willed his body back under his control. When Julian returned and sat at the edge of their bed, he was still far from perfectly fine, but he’d regained enough control of his physical symptoms to convince Julian otherwise.

“I do apologize, my dear,” he started, without quite knowing how to continue.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Julian. He paused. “Any idea what prompted it?”

“An old nightmare,” said Garak. “You can appreciate the irony, of course.”

“Irony?” said Julian, frowning.

“That my nightmares should resurface just as Galen’s seem to finally be decreasing in frequency.”

“It’s not just you. Something about Cardassian neurophysiology makes you especially prone to processing trauma in your sleep. That damned Cardassian efficiency, I suppose. I’ve been thinking of writing a paper on it. Half my patients come in begging for sedatives, but I’m loathe to prescribe them. There’s already a shortage, for one, and the side effects are often worse than the nightmares.”

“ _ZamacUs’hren_.”

Julian’s brow furrowed. “Walking dream?”

“I doubt that’s the official diagnosis.”

“It’s an apt description. From how my patients have described it, it sounds like a very surreal experience.”

“Not to mention unpleasant and extremely dangerous, depending on what one is doing prior to their onset,” said Garak. “Do control your sympathy, my dear. It was a long time ago, and did not involve any medical supervision. Now, please come back to bed.”

Julian hesitated for a moment, and then did as Garak asked, keeping a polite distance between them. Garak longed to close it, but thought better of it.

“We’ve also had another upsurge in Zolpida overdose,” said Julian. Zolpida was a powerful narcotic. The Order had always found it expedient to allow tendrils of the black market to survive, because death by Zolpida overdose was easy to simulate. In the aftermath of the war, the black market had resurfaced with a vengeance. “Claran said she’d bring it up at the next council meeting. Though I hate to think what Marratt will consider an appropriate solution.”

“Claran generally ignores his ‘solutions’ to matters of public health, and the rest of the Council respects her expertise,” said Garak. “Now go back to sleep.”

As he watched Julian do just that, he slid his finger along the underside of his own wedding ring. It activated at his touch, pulsing faintly in time to the beat of Julian’s heart, steady and calming. His husband’s sleeping form made for an eloquent picture of debauchery, lying naked and disheveled, smelling as though he’d been bathing in Cardassian pheromones. He also looked like he’d been assaulted by an overzealous but largely incompetent vampire, and Garak did feel slightly embarrassed about that. If he was going to bite the man, it should at least be on purpose.

Prior to this relationship, Garak had not been in the habit of losing himself so thoroughly in another person. Not since he was a teenager, anyway, when every sensation had been new and overwhelming. It hadn’t taken him long to learn that sex was no reason to let down one’s guard, and allowing oneself to become too enraptured by it created dangerous vulnerabilities. A tendency towards this weakness should be encouraged and exploited in others and assiduously rooted out in oneself.

As much as he trusted Julian, as much as he _wanted_ to let himself trust Julian, he still found it unnerving that he was even capable of giving himself over so completely. It was as if Julian was slowly dismantling all the walls Garak had carefully constructed around himself. Julian would no doubt say this was a good thing, that love had no need for such walls, but Garak was still far from convinced. Being loved had always seemed a far more complicated and treacherous thing than being hated. Anything you loved could be used to manipulate or destroy you.

Intellectually, he knew that the room was not shrinking, that the walls were in exactly the same position they had been for decades. But it hit him like this sometimes, the sheer suffocating absurdity of it all. Cardassia in ashes and ruins. Julian’s body flush against his and moving with his, Julian moaning prayers and obscenities into his skin. Tain’s ghost in his head, telling him what a sentimental fool he was (had always been). Galen calling him ‘Yadik’ (he’d never been permitted to call Tain that). The Council, talking and talking and never accomplishing as much as it needed to (so much for that famed Cardassian attention to detail). Dr. Zulak’s voice shaking with fear: _“But he was in the Obsidian Order. Do you even understand what that means?”_ Amsha Bashir at his kitchen table: _“Is Julian well-liked, here?”_

Clearly, he wasn’t going to get any more sleep this morning. He was tempted to wake Julian back up for the sake of diverting his own mind from this chaotic, swirling vortex, but facing Julian’s concern again was too intolerable. There was nothing for it but to remove himself from the warmth and the walls. He dressed quickly and quietly and crept to the front door.

Cardassia’s moons still lingered overhead, amidst the fading stars. They shone more brightly over Cardassia City now than they ever had in all Garak’s memory. Beautiful, but a reflection of the damage to the power grid, and the devastation of the city’s industrial and commercial districts. The bark of the barren rokassa trees glowed faintly, stubbornly clinging to life, like Cardassia itself. The cottage was designed to look impenetrable in darkness, the windows and door becoming indistinguishable from the walls. The design was an ancient one, quite useless against modern sensor technology, regarded as a quaint traditional feature to include on servants’ dwellings. Perhaps they would incorporate that element if and when they rebuilt Tain’s manor; it appealed to Garak’s sense of aesthetic.

In a way, the cottage had been the site of his first exile. Tain’s mother, in declining health, took up residence in the main house, and Tain promptly decided that Garak, just turned fourteen, should expand his skills to include horticulture. Naturally, Tain offered no explanation for this, though Garak had several hypotheses. Perhaps, Tain merely feared his mother might recognize her own unusual blue eyes in Garak’s face. More likely, he thought that if forced to live in close proximity to the old crone for any length of time, Garak might be tempted to put some of his preliminary training to good use, such as his prodigious knowledge of poisons.

Whatever the reason, when the old woman moved in Garak was shuffled out to the gardener’s cottage, where he began a brief but informative apprenticeship in the ways of flowers and trees, under the tutelage of kind, crooked-toothed Chanzi Skuder (and a series of equally informative lessons from Skuder’s 16-year-old son, Luk, on what humans euphemistically referred to as the ‘birds and the bees’).

In many ways it had been the high point of a generally unpleasant childhood. Eking life out of Cardassia’s poisoned soil required patience, diligence, knowledge, and determination. Creating beauty from such limited stock demanded not just artistry but a flair for the dramatic. Getting his hands dirty would never feel so clean again. Best of all, Tain’s scrutiny was not a constant presence, circling overhead like a taspar on the hunt. (And the closets in the cottage were too small even for a prison.)

Skuder’s eyes were failing him, and he was too proud to ask for Tain’s assistance procuring medical treatment. Garak and Luk read to him in the evenings, usually poetry, some of it bordering on seditious. It was the sort of literature popular among the serving and laboring classes, short and lyrical and couched in metaphors too prosaic for the aristocracy to understand. It only persisted without attracting official censure because it wasn’t considered consequential enough to obliterate. Luk enunciated every metrical foot with the grace and precision of a Kasseelian ballerina and hardly spoke otherwise, though he always listened well.

With Luk, Garak had shared a room, his opinion on a diversity of frivolous topics, and eventually a variety of bodily fluids. Their romance - if one could label such adolescent fumblings ‘romance’- was destined from the outset to be short-lived. Even if Garak’s future in the Obsidian Order had not been preordained, same-sex unions were a luxury of the upper classes, who could afford the reproductive technology necessary to create ‘natural’ children. Luk was Skuder’s only living son, so the responsibility of continuing the family line fell on his broad shoulders.

That did not stop Garak from becoming as hopelessly enamored as only a teenager could. In hindsight, he cursed his own foolish transparency. Just because he could no longer see Tain’s shadow hovering over him, did not mean he was free of it. (In the end, what Tain had made him do to Luk still occasionally featured in his nightmares. Unable to cope with the loss, old Skuder had fired a disrupter at his own head. One of Tora Ziyal’s paintings now hung over the scorch-marks still marring the wall.)

An orange glow was beginning to swell on the horizon, and dwelling on such reminiscences did little to improve his state of mind. The waxing light shone through the small grove of rokassa trees, revealing something new: tiny, spiky buds, emerging from naked branches. Garak did not allow himself to miss the dead, but sometimes he did miss the Skuders’ fresh rokassa juice. They’d taught him their recipe, but somehow it never tasted the same.

Garak made his way back to the cottage and headed for the kitchen, preparing his taste-buds for disappointment. While he was on the station, Julian had created a dehydrated rokassa powder that would supposedly metamorphose into rokassa juice when boiling water was added to it. It was a sweet, thoughtful gesture, but Garak was a little dubious about how drinkable it would be, especially since Julian had also tinkered with it to increase its nutritional value. (Ever contradictory, Julian had also returned with a box of decidedly unnutritious Delavian chocolates. Garak harbored a suspicion that Julian preferred to keep him a bit squishy, so that he made for a more comfortable pillow.)

Even before he reached the central antechamber, he could see that the lights were on in the kitchen. He approached cautiously out of habit, though his instincts told him not to expect an intruder. Amsha Bashir was sitting at the table with her back to the door (a vulnerable position Garak always avoided, if possible), waiting for a kettle to boil.

“I believe Galen has more colorful drawing implements, if you would like to add more verisimilitude.”

Amsha started, and dropped her pencil. A monochrome copy of the window’s complex pattern of spiraling green and yellow diamonds lay half-finished in the sketchbook before her.

“You move like a ghost,” said Amsha, with a huff of nervous laughter, more accusatory than amused. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Not at all,” said Garak. He took the seat opposite her. “The rokassa trees are very sensitive to light, and must be trimmed just before sunrise for optimum results.”

A statement like that would have sparked Julian’s curiosity, and spurred him into asking questions until he could call Garak out on his questionable biology, but evidently this curiosity was not something he inherited from his mother, who only nodded. “Would you like some karkade? It’s from Earth. Not replicated.”

“I was just going to offer you some rokassa juice,” said Garak.

“Julian warned me away from that,” said Amsha, but she was smiling. “I’ll try yours if you’ll try mine.”

Garak agreed to this, and they lapsed into silence. He wasn’t in the mood to play ‘plain and simple’ host, and didn’t trust himself not to say something acerbic. He wasn’t entirely sure what tone to strike with a woman who had undoubtedly overheard him enjoying her son, and had seemed rather resentful of it when he encountered her last night. Cardassian parents would express concern if a newly enjoined couple did _not_ join the breakfast table smelling of one another’s pheromones. Sometimes he despaired of understanding humans.

The karkade turned out to be a kind of tea made from a Terran flower, bright red and a bit tart. To his surprise, the dehydrated rokassa turned out to be not only palatable, but vastly superior to the replicated variety he had subsisted on for years on DS9. There was something to be said for marrying a genius with a perfectionist streak and a profound fear of disappointing anyone he cared for. Amazing how the same set of characteristics could alternately cause delight, annoyance, and concern. He supposed he had Amsha to thank for them.

“No wonder Julian doesn’t like it,” said Amsha, taking an experimental sip. “It smells like concentrated beet juice.”

“Beat juice?” asked Garak. “What does one ‘beat’ to acquire this drink?”

Amsha giggled. “It’s a root vegetable. Julian loathes them. Or, he used to.” A frown creased her brow for a moment, and was gone.

Garak had never seen or tasted a beet, and since most of the human cuisine he’d been exposed to had been selected by Julian, it was likely that he still avoided them. Would Amsha find this comforting, he wondered?

A truly talented interrogator did not need to resort to crass tactics like torture, which were more effective for inducing psychological breakdowns than for producing useful intelligence. This time, when silence descended, Garak kept his eyes locked on hers, trapping her in an unblinking stare. The trick wasn’t to wear an expression of intimidation, but of invitation. _This conversation has reached a pothole, now be a dear and fill it. I’ll be right here with my shovel (the better to bury you with)_.

“I hardly know him anymore. I thought that if I just spent more time with him he wouldn’t be able to keep me at arm’s length. But things are still so strained between us, and I don’t know what I can do about it.” Amsha finally averted her eyes, staring into her tea. “It’s not as though we can change the past. After all this time, I don’t know why he can’t just let it go.”

Her eyes returned to his, soft and pleading. That was surely cheating, using one of Julian’s expressions on him. “Have you considered asking for his forgiveness?” he asked.

“He’s had twenty years to forgive me,” said Amsha, a trace of sharpness edging into her voice. “If he was going to, he would have done it by now.”

“I once tried to blow up a planet while he was standing on it and he still married me. I would not underestimate Julian’s capacity for forgiveness. Although I wouldn’t take it for granted, either.”

Julian had not been the target of his attack, of course; he would have just been collateral damage. Garak had loved Julian even then, but he still hadn’t given a second thought to sacrificing him for Cardassia. In the moment, he hadn’t expected to live long enough to regret the loss. He wondered if Julian would have taken this more personally if they’d been sleeping together at the time. He also wondered whether he could still make the same decision now, and feared that the answer was ‘no.’

He watched Amsha consider whether to ask for further details about the incident, before dismissing it as obfuscation or hyperbole. “We did what we thought was best for him, but he refuses to see that.” (That was one excuse Tain never used. Cardassia’s best interests mattered; Garak’s did not.)

So, that thread of Bashir stubbornness ran through her seams as well.

“If your goal is to convince him of that, then you might as well go back to Earth. Whether you think you need his forgiveness or not, you will never regain his trust if you don’t obtain it.”

He excused himself to take a sonic shower, leaving her to mull over his advice. It was for Julian’s sake, not hers, that he offered it, and he didn’t know her well enough to foresee whether she would take it or not.

* * *

Julian was still asleep when Garak returned to their room to dress. Or so it appeared. As soon as Garak laid a hand on his shoulder, he was unceremoniously tumbled down onto the bed.

“Mmmf,” was all he managed in protest, because Julian was kissing him.

Well, he wasn’t _all_ that inclined to protest. Julian rested his hand on Garak’s chest, tracing the ridges of his _chula_ with feather-light fingers, though he made no attempt to divest him of his bathrobe.

“Good morning. Feeling better after your walk?” asked Julian, when he finally lifted his head. “You could try telling me the truth this time, just for the sake of novelty.”

Increasing age wasn’t doing much for his stealth, evidently. “There’s no point in telling you anything if you already know all the answers.”

Julian rested his forehead against Garak’s chula and made an exasperated noise. “Elim…”

“I feel much better, Dr. Bashir. A little air and a soothing cup of rokassa juice works wonders.”

“Did you like it?” asked Julian, hopefully.

“Oh, yes. The scope of your talents never ceases to amaze me.”

“You’re welcome.” Julian beamed at him. “You wouldn’t believe how much of that stuff I had to drink to get the flavor right. I’m glad it was worth it.”

“Your sacrifices are noted and appreciated.”

“That’s good, because my taste-buds may never be the same.”

A brief _anshwar_ , and Julian was off to the bathroom himself to shower and dress and prepare for a new day. Garak lingered a few minutes more, staring up at the ceiling and commanding the walls to stay exactly where they were. For once, they obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A new faction expresses discontent over Federation aid.


	13. Chapter 10: Posing and Bragging and Fits of Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They have a point,” said Marratt. “The public are becoming too reliant on these Federation handouts.”_
> 
> _“Without these Federation handouts, we won’t have much of a public left,” said Garak._

Galen stood on a stool watching his new grandmother with rapt attention as she leaned over the stove, while Garak sat at the table with a PADD in hand, keeping a surreptitious eye on the proceedings.

“Good morning.” Julian joined them, now showered and dressed and only smelling faintly of Garak’s pheromones. “That smells delicious.”

“Daddy!” Galen jumped off his stool and practically bounced over to him. “Nana is teaching me how to make pancakes!”

Amsha’s smile was a little tentative. “I checked with Garak to make sure all the ingredients were safe for him.”

“I’m not entirely convinced of their nutritional value,” said Garak, “but they shouldn’t have any ill-effects, so long as he doesn’t eat _all_ of them before they make it to the table.”

“Nutritional value isn’t really the point of pancakes,” said Julian.

“There are fresh strawberries in the stasis tube on the counter,” said Amsha, pointing with her spatula.

These were immediately seized and relocated to the table. Julian bit into one with a nearly orgasmic expression of delight.

“Should I leave you two alone?” asked Garak.

“Mmm, join us,” he said, holding out a strawberry.

It was fine, if a bit sickly-sweet. Although Garak appreciated a good dessert (probably more than he ought to), he found most Earth fruit rather cloying. The strawberries were marginally improved when sliced and eaten with the pancakes and a dollop of whipped cream. Galen ended up with more whipped cream on his face than in his mouth, which was probably just as well, given the number of pancakes he consumed.

One unexpected benefit of acquiring a child was that it gave Julian an alternative target for his medical concerns. Garak was now trusted to take his own vitamins and administer his own inoculations against radiation poisoning while Julian fussed over Galen. Galen’s skin was particularly sensitive, and the city center was still experiencing cases of radiation exposure, so on school days Julian rubbed him down with a topical cream to prevent blistering (a formula Julian had developed himself).

“You look like you’re about to start shedding again,” said Julian, worrying a loose scale with his fingertip. “At this rate you’re going to need some new clothes soon.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Galen.

Julian paused in his ministrations. “You don’t need to be sorry, love. Growing is precisely what you s _hould_ be doing. It’s a good thing.” He kissed the top of Galen’s head and resumed his application of the cream.

The kitchen viewscreen buzzed and flickered into life. Amsha’s head jerked around, startled. A low resolution image of Lang’s protege, Rekelen, appeared on the screen, never a good sign. The girl had a knack for anticipating calamity and arriving on the scene to create an unsanctioned record of events. In her starry-eyed appreciation for all that was Federation, Lang, officially the Minister of Communications, had stripped out as much government oversight of news services as she could get away with.

_“At the Federation field hospital on the outskirts of Lakat, a group of agitators calling themselves Restore Cardassia Now is blocking public access to the weekly vaccination clinic which is scheduled to start within the hour. One member of these so-called ‘Restorationists’ has agreed to speak with us on condition of anonymity. Why is RCN blocking access to vital medical treatment?”_

The man - shown only from the neck down - scoffed. _“Vital medical treatment? Federation poison, more like. They see our diminished state as an opportunity to destroy us, once and for all. The Federaji are like taspar circling a dying zabu. These so-called medicines they’re so eager to distribute will serve only to weaken us further, erode our minds, sterilize us—!”_

_“Do you have any evidence to support your claims?” cut in Rekelen, coolly._

_“They are the enemy!_ ” screeched the Restorationist. _“Decades of warfare have not yet quenched their thirst for Cardassian blood!”_

_“Our own doctors and scientists are working with the Federation to produce and distribute these much needed vaccines. This province has already seen a 65% reduction of cases of Cartalian fever, an 80% reduction in cases of Rudellian plague, and a 35% reduction in cases of gettlepox.”_

_“Of course! Haven’t you been listening? They’re trying to lull us into trusting them.”_

_“What is your response to the accusation that the leaders of your group are former members of the terrorist organization known as True Way?”_

_“I don’t know anyone who was part of this True Way. But I will say this much: is it terrorism to defend your way of life from the forces of corruption? Were you not also labeled a terrorist for your activism?”_

_“Yes, I was falsely labeled a terrorist. But unlike True Way, I never blew up any ships. I never killed anyone.”_

“No, her sin is one of criminal shortsightedness and lack of subtlety,” said Garak. “And to think, Lang calls _her_ the face of the new Cardassia.”

“She _is_. Whether you like it or not,” said Julian. “I don’t see what’s so bad about showing people what’s really going on for a change.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Garak, shaking his head. “Displaying these people and allowing them to voice their absurd opinions will spread those opinions to others.”

“You should have more faith in the intelligence of your own people,” said Julian. “And give Rekelen a little more credit. She was quick to point out the evidence against his ravings.”

“Oh, I’m sure that most people will take it for the errant nonsense it is. But some will be more inclined to trust the nonsense than the facts.”

The corner of Julian’s mouth twitched. “Have you started believing in truth, then?”

“I said nothing about truth, my dear Doctor, only _facts_.”

A voice over the house comm system cut off any further philosophical discussion. “ _Incoming message for Elim Garak from Natima Lang, Minister of Communications._ ”

“Two minutes, thirty-four seconds. Their response time is improving.”

“Well, go dig out the good kanar, this calls for celebration,” said Garak, on his way to the terminal in the living room. It seemed that all the euphoria of the previous night had evaporated under the dawning sun.

* * *

“The _Enterprise_ will be here within the hour,” said Minister Lang. “Since there are Federation civilians involved, we should request Starfleet assistance.”

“Absolutely not!” said Minister Marratt. “We cannot tolerate the presence of a foreign military on our soil.”

“We must enter the upcoming negotiations from a position of strength. It will undermine our position if we can’t manage our own citizens and protect _their_ citizens on our world,” said Minister Evek. He stared straight ahead, avoiding Marratt’s face. Strange, thought Garak, and filed the observation away for later consideration.

“Our _position_ ,” said Garak, “is that we need Federation assistance and have little to offer in return save for a promise of future goodwill.” The beginnings of a grateful look crept across Lang’s face; Garak’s next words smothered it. “However, I agree that it would be imprudent to involve Starfleet. That would only exacerbate a fraught situation.”

“I concur,” said Minister Claran. “The last thing we want is a riot on our hands.”

“Precisely,” said Garak. “I believe that domestic security falls under your purview, Marratt. How do you suggest we resolve this?”

“They have a point,” said Marratt. “The public are becoming too reliant on these Federation handouts.”

“Without these Federation handouts, we won’t have much of a public left,” said Garak. In truth, Garak didn’t like it any better than Marratt did. But he believed in pragmatism over idealism, and complete self-sufficiency would remain elusive for some time yet. Federation aid came with fewer strings attached than Romulan aid would. In Garak’s estimation, becoming autonomous allies of the Federation would serve Cardassia better in the long run than years of being their enemies had.

The majority of the Interim Governing Council agreed on the necessity of maintaining access to the vaccination clinic. What to do with the Restorationists was another matter.

“Arrest them all and have done with it,” said Evek.

“We can’t arrest them if they’re merely present and voicing their opinions,” put in Lang. Garak did not roll his eyes, though it required years of Obsidian Order training to restrain himself.

“We can,” said Evek.

“They should only be arrested if they’re actively involved in the blockade,” continued Lang. “We should be advocating Freedom of Speech as a policy, even if people disagree with us. Debate is fundamental to Cardassian society. It must not be stifled as long as it stays civil.”

“Can we at least agree that the _uncivil_ should be disbanded?” said Garak.

This met with murmurs of agreement. Still, an air of foreboding hovered over the room, and Garak doubted the situation would be resolved swiftly or easily.

* * *

When the meeting finally adjourned, out of the corner of his eye Garak caught sight of an angry whisper passed from Evek to Marratt. Both then headed in the direction of Evek’s office. Garak shook off Lang’s attempts to engage him in conversation and returned to his own office. He pressed a few buttons on his console in a pattern the other ministers wouldn’t recognize, and tapped the well-camouflaged ear piece running between his left aural ridges. While Garak’s current career required different methods than either of his previous ones, he still adhered to the principle that one should always know more about one’s colleagues - or customers - than they knew about you.

“You are a married man,” said the raised voice of Minister Evek, “and she is a _child_. If you so much as look at her again, Marratt—”

Marratt’s voice was fainter, no doubt further from the listening device. “I’ve done nothing _but_ look, Minister. If the young woman has developed an infatuation with me, that’s her fault, not mine. Any accusation of wrongdoing on my part is completely uncalled for. _I_ have been most _unfairly_ maligned.”

“I’ll have none of your excuses, you sniveling vole. You’ve been warned. Stay away from my daughter and get out of my sight.”

A chair slid back, feet tapped against the floor, and silence fell.

Evek’s daughter seemed an odd target. Marratt and Evek disagreed on a number of issues, but they were essentially allies. Why should Marratt go out of his way to antagonize him? The most obvious answer was that Marratt had let his infamous libido rule his actions once too often. He was hardly the first man in a position of power, wealth, and prestige to think that anyone of a more vulnerable status - whether due to rank, class, or age - was his for the taking. By Cardassian beauty standards, Marratt approached the male ideal: tall, deep-chested, facial ridges heavy and protruding, neck ridges broad and flaring. Pity he spoiled the effect with his sneers and insufferable prattle. But many people were not as picky as Garak in these matters. Sheltered seventeen-year-olds were not known for their discernment.

This explanation was simple and obvious and Garak didn’t trust it at all. He was well-acquainted with Marratt’s patterns of behavior as recorded in both official and unofficial records. His seductions did not suggest a man seeking mere gratification or even power over others on a personal level. He aimed for women aligned with his political enemies, or widows and spinsters of higher rank and greater prosperity than he possessed. The underage daughter of a sometime ally gained him nothing but Evek’s distrust. His motives for sending Zulak to harass Julian also lacked a clear goal. Whatever Marratt’s true plans were, Garak hadn’t yet discerned them, and that _irked_ him. More than that, an all too familiar paranoia simmered at the back of his mind, ready to boil over at any moment.

* * *

As in most matters, the military usually took the wrong approach in their dealings with the Federation. Most guls would claim that the Federation was made of weak, cowardly hedonists, and that the best way to approach them involved projecting power, strength, menace, and intimidation. What they failed to appreciate was that the Federation was like a riding hound kept as a family pet: a lumbering, gentle beast, nuzzling the children and dozing on the kitchen rug, fattened by table scraps. But an intruder would soon find those sharp fangs in his neck, if he came at the creature with hostile intent. No, far better to approach with soft words and outstretched palms.

“Commander Riker and Counselor Troi are from a Federation starship called the _Enterprise_ ,” said Garak, addressing the child on his lap. Galen gazed at the pair with an expression of wide-eyed awe that made Garak want to grind his teeth. A few days on a Federation run space station and Julian’s corruption of the boy was complete.

“You’re also a commander,” said Galen, to Troi, “because you have three rank pips.”

“Did your daddy teach you about Starfleet ranks?” asked Troi. She leaned down and offered him an encouraging smile.

“Uh-huh.” Galen flushed a shade of verdigris. “Yadik says you’re half-human and half-Betazoid.”

“That’s right,” said Troi.

“Can you read people’s minds?”

“I’m an empath. I can sense how people feel.”

Members of the Obsidian Order underwent extensive mental training to withstand various forms of telepathic assault. The preferred technique to use against empaths was deflection. A well-disciplined mind could compartmentalize emotions and project only a carefully curated collection, masking all others. Focusing on an emotionally charged memory worked well; the most common choices were anger or rage, which were easy enough for members of the military to conjure to the forefront of what passed for their minds, especially when dealing with an enemy.

That wouldn’t do at all here, and had never been Garak’s approach to begin with.

In the last week, Garak had come to the unexpected conclusion that having lunch with his son was the highlight of most of his work days. A year ago he would have derided the idea that banal conversation with a four-year-old could be remotely engaging. Yet, the absence of it soured his mood, and coming home to an empty house did not sweeten it. He certainly wouldn’t miss it just for the sake of entertaining two Starfleet officers.

A benefit of this was that the Betazoid would sense familial affection from him and little else. Crude, but effective. Selective truth-telling was as useful a skill as lying. (Julian would not entirely approve of this use of their son, but Garak could foresee no harm done to anyone. On the contrary, Galen enjoyed having lunch with his yadik and he enjoyed meeting new aliens.)

This first meeting was a sort of informal reconnaissance mission for both sides. All the intelligence about Picard indicated that he was the very model of a Starfleet captain, and even the Federation did not put fools in charge of their flagship. (Julian spoke of the man with the kind of reverence he usually reserved for the Hippocratic oath and his favorite tennis champions.) In his history of hostile interactions with Cardassians, Picard had bested them more often than not.

“If someone is sad, does it make you sad?” asked Galen.

“Sometimes,” said Troi.

Galen tilted his head to one side, eyeridges scrunched together in contemplation. This usually signaled the start of a session of silent brooding. (Julian predicted that the boy would be a great poet someday.) Troi gazed at him intently, intrigued by whatever constellation of emotions Galen was experiencing.

“I must apologize for the quality of the food. Flavor seems to be beyond the capabilities of our cafeteria’s replicators,” said Garak. “Have either of you ever tried any real Cardassian cuisine?”

“I can’t say we have,” said Riker.

“I do hope you’ll return when we’re in a better position to provide it.”

“We want to help you get there, Minister,” said Riker. “If you’ll let us.”

“The Federation is no doubt concerned about the situation in Lakat,” said Garak. “I assure you, the safety of your citizens is of the utmost importance to us. The Ministry of Intraplanetary Security is preparing countermeasures as we speak.” Marratt was at least competent at carrying out his duties, even though his blustering seemed aimed at preventing the Council from assigning him any to perform.

“The _Enterprise_ is authorized to provide assistance, if needed.”

“That is much appreciated, but unnecessary,” said Garak, and hoped it would prove true.

* * *

Galen was quiet as Garak walked him back to his classroom after lunch.

At last he said, “Do you think if more people were empaths they would stop being mean?”

“Perhaps,” said Garak. “Has someone been mean to you, Galen?”

“No,” said Galen, too quickly. “Not _really_.”

Garak could guess well enough what _that_ meant. He ought to give the child some advice, but did not know what to say. He’d retaliated against a bully once and found himself locked in the closet overnight for his trouble; not, as Tain explained later, for seeking vengeance, which was entirely correct, but for his lack of _subtlety_. He’d lost his temper, responded immediately, and been caught. Enemies should be disposed of _discreetly_ , and not merely for the sake of soothing one’s ire.

“They’re just not very nice, are they?”

Galen nodded, and stared at the floor.

Garak paused and knelt down so that they were at eye-level. “There will always be people who will dislike you for things you can’t control. I will do anything in my power to prevent them from hurting you, but even I cannot make them show you the kindness you deserve. Whatever anyone else says to you, know that Julian and I will always care for you. Now, what do we always say about family?”

“ _Family is everything._ ”

“And you are everything to _us_ , my dear.” He offered his palm, and Galen met it with his own small hand, and interlocked their fingers.

His Cardassia was gone, now, reduced to ash and cinder, and parts of himself had gone with it. He missed it, though he no longer missed the man he used to be. But _his_ Cardassia had rejected Tora Ziyal, who was as blameless as anyone could be, and it would have rejected Galen and Julian as well. How others treated them now was beyond his control. All he could do was try to reshape this new Cardassia into a place that _could_ show kindness to its so-called undesirables. He could make no promises for the future, for the universe was an unfathomable, unpredictable place. But sometimes, against all expectations, a lovely young Starfleet officer took your hand and forgave you all your crimes, without knowing or caring what they were.

Kindness was not merely a myth used to manipulate the gullible, as his own father had taught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Amsha's new supervisor might be cause for concern.


	14. Chapter 11: Piles of Ruin and Debris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“In the Federation, we don’t believe in punishing people for what their relatives have done.” With a few exceptions, of course_. 
> 
> _“As I understand it, humans do not regard family as an institution of such high esteem as we do.”_

The pancakes were a hit with everyone. It was a shame to have the mood spoiled by that alarming newscast.

“Will Yadik have to go to Lakat?” asked Galen.

“I don’t think so,” said Julian, but with his brow furrowed in concern like that, it wasn’t very convincing.

“Will you?”

“No,” said Julian, more firmly. “I’m not going anywhere but to work.” Galen scowled but didn’t protest as Julian pressed a hypospray to his neck. “Now, go and get your school bag. I have a feeling you and Yadik will be leaving early this morning.”

“He’s so well-behaved,” commented Amsha, as Galen dutifully made his way to his room to collect his things. At that age, Julian would throw an impressive tantrum if he so much as looked at a hypospray. “Have you heard of these ‘Restorationists’ before?”

“Unfortunately, yes. This is the first time they’ve done something besides make noise. They’re getting bolder.”

“Are they in the capital as well?”

“If they are, they’re keeping their heads down, at least for the time being.” He took a sip of fish juice. (Amsha had tried some of this earlier, in the spirit of cultural immersion; she thought it might go well in a stir fry, but couldn’t fathom the appeal of drinking it at breakfast.) “Were you issued a dust mask?”

“Yes, it was part of the FARO kit I was given at the station.” DS9 had become the central hub for volunteers to convene, the last stop before venturing into Cardassian space. The Federation Assistance and Relief Organization was the largest volunteer agency in the UFP dedicated exclusively to foreign aid, and the only one currently operating on Cardassia Prime. At their DS9 offices, Amsha had been given a kit with essential supplies, a guidebook, and a holovid summarizing the monthly orientation she’d missed.

“Good. You’ll definitely need it today. Two of the non-emergency transporters are down again, so the hospital is sending a skimmer.”

As Julian predicted, Garak, accompanied by Galen, departed via transporter a few minutes later. (Public transporters were still under limited operation, but most government buildings and hospitals had their own facilities.) Julian’s transportation, however, would not be coming directly to the house.

“Some of the hospital staff are assigned to housing in this sector, so we’ll meet the skimmer there. It’s just a short walk.”

The morning light cast the neighborhood in eerie shadows, but there were also more signs of life than she had seen yesterday afternoon. The road was clear of debris and vehicles of any kind, but their were a few other pedestrians casting them furtive glances as they passed. Other cottages similar to her son’s home were visible behind piles of twisted metal, scorched wood, shattered glass, and cracked stone. At the corner where the road intersected with a larger thoroughfare, a team of Cardassian laborers were shoveling loads of detritus onto a large hovercraft. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and ash.

They crossed the intersection and entered an area of new construction, free of rubble. “There was a park here before the war, according to Garak. Most of the city’s parks were converted to emergency housing - no collapsed buildings to clear out.”

The sun climbing over the horizon may have been hotter than Earth’s, but it lacked Sol’s brightness. The sky retained a yellowish haze. The collection of straggly flora in Garak’s garden seemed the only plant-life for miles around.

The neighborhood they entered contained a few stark apartment buildings amidst an assortment of squat modular units (Federation design) and tents with an old-fashioned military vibe. Around a dozen Cardassians (mostly women) stood chatting in front of one apartment complex, all wearing the same style of brown tunic Julian wore. Amsha felt their eyes on her like a spotlight, but Julian seemed perfectly at ease.

Julian made a few introductions, but they were quickly interrupted by an open-topped vehicle descending from overhead. “It was used for touring the Tai’i Rainforest before the war,” said Julian, as they climbed into the skimmer. “A lot of vehicles have had to be re-purposed. Which does have its disadvantages.” Amsha realized that everyone was pulling on their dust masks and followed suit as the skimmer lifted into the air.

The loud motor of the skimmer and the masks left no room for further conversation. They flew low over the city, wind whipping at their hair and tugging at their masks. Particulate matter hung dense in the air, obscuring her view of the ruined city. The fug cleared somewhat as they descended over a sea of gray tents adjacent to a tall building with upper floors under construction. Chatter resumed as they removed their masks and disembarked, before the doctors dispersed, some to the tents, and some heading for the triangular doors.

Like most Cardassian architecture, Central Hospital appeared brutalist and forbidding. Rationally, Amsha understood that the low lighting was employed here because Cardassian eyes faired poorly under bright lights, but she couldn’t help feeling that it added an air of gloom to the ambiance.

A human man with golden hair and bright blue eyes met them in the lobby. “You must be Amsha,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Darcy Frey, the volunteer coordinator for FARO.”

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it, then,” said Julian. “I’ll meet you for lunch in the cafeteria, if I can. Unless something comes up.” With that, he hurried off to disappear into the nearest turbolift.

“I’m sorry you missed this month’s orientation,” said Darcy. “Have you had a chance to review the material we sent you?”

“Most of it,” said Amsha.

“Fantastic! We’ll get you straight to work, then.” Darcy rubbed his hands together and bounced on the balls of his feet. He reminded her of an ancient statue of Dionysus, youthful energy barely contained in marble. Amsha could hardly keep up as he led her down a dim hall to another turbolift. “We’re thrilled to have someone with your background joining us right now. Most of our people are medical professionals - we really can’t afford to have them doing basic lab work when we need them elsewhere.”

“I’ve worked mostly in heritage conservation,” said Amsha.

“Chemistry is chemistry,” said Darcy. “If you can follow a laboratory protocol without injuring yourself, you’ll be an asset here.”

His demeanor remained cheerful, but Amsha could hear an undercurrent of harried desperation. He and the other volunteers with FARO were here out of compassion, pure an simple. What must he think of someone like her, who only offered her assistance as a means to an entirely personal end?

“What will I be doing, exactly?”

They stepped inside the turbolift. “Basement level 3, pharmacology. You’ll be working with Dr. Berr to synthesize the vaccine for gettlepox. She’ll train you in the use of Cardassian equipment and go over the procedures.”

Amsha had no idea what gettlepox was, but she supposed she could always ask Julian later (and probably learn more about it than she wanted to).

“You may find Dr. Berr a bit… brusque,” warned Darcy. “But she’s very competent. She headed the Science Ministry before the Dominion occupation.”

“Oh. This must be an important project, then.”

“All of the vaccination synthesis labs are important,” said Darcy. “Gettlepox isn’t typically deadly for Cardassians, except to those with already compromised immune systems, the very old, and the very young. But it spreads rapidly, and can leave otherwise healthy people more susceptible to more serious infections. Luckily humans can’t act as either hosts or vectors for the disease.”

Darcy pressed a panel beside the laboratory door. After a brief pause, the door slid open. “Enter,” called a voice from within.

Dr. Berr was probably near Amsha’s age, and had the appearance of someone who had once been stout, but had lost a large amount of weight in a short period of time. Her long black hair was piled in a gravity defying coiffure that gave her head the shape of an Erlenmeyer flask. The blue coloration in the center of the spoon-shaped ridge on her forehead was pale and dusty, like chalk. Her earrings and the bejeweled metal bands securing her hair looked far too expensive to be worn in a working lab.

“Dr. Berr, I’ve brought you your new assistant!” said Darcy, bouncing back into boisterous, boyish energy. “Amsha Bashir, Dr. Dozia Berr. I’ll just leave you to get acquainted. I’m afraid I have another appointment to keep.” With that, he turned on his heel and hurried from the room.

“Well, Bashir,” said Dr. Berr, looking her up and down, “I assume you’ve never worked with Cardassian equipment before.”

“No, I have not,” said Amsha. “And please, call me Amsha.”

“As your superior, I’m entitled to call you by your first name whether you invite me to or not. I _was_ doing you a courtesy.”

“Oh, uh, sorry. I meant no disrespect. On Earth, most workplaces are less formal.”

“I am not so easily offended. I take it that you are accustomed to addressing your superiors on Earth by their given names?”

“Usually.” Amsha shrugged. “Most human scientists are too focused on their research to maintain much interest in social hierarchies.”

“Such rampant egalitarianism. It’s a wonder anything gets done,” said Berr. She let out a startling bark of laughter. “I suppose I’m not much of a superior to anyone these days. A hierarchy of two isn’t much of a hierarchy. I think I _will_ call you Amsha. And you will call me Dozia.”

“It’s a lovely name.”

“Yes, it used to suit me very well.” That harsh laugh burst out of her again; Amsha found it unsettling. “Let’s begin with the chemicals. FARO has given us a list of translations into Federation Standard. Memorize it. I don’t care if you ever learn to read our language, but you will learn to recognize the characters designating common reagents.”

“ _Inshallah_ ,” said Amsha, under her breath. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

“The baby is still developing at a somewhat faster rate than the Cardassian average, so I think my last estimate for the due date should be as close to accurate as these things usually are,” said Julian.

“In other words, not very,” said Hestra Marratt.

“Babies tend to do things in their own time, whatever the species,” said Julian, but the chuckle that would usually have followed died in his throat. “And in this case, there are a great many unknowns. There are no other Cardassian-Human hybrids on record.”

“I’m aware, Doctor.” She was at least a decade younger than Julian, and a few inches shorter, but she still managed to look down her nose at him with an air of haughty superiority when she rose from the biobed.

“I’m sorry if I seem to be repeating myself, but I want you to be aware of all the risks.”

“I assure you, Doctor, I am far more cognizant of the risks of carrying this child to term than you are.”

On a Federation world, she would have a variety of options that were legal, safe, and discreet. On Cardassia, abortion was a matter of public record, and required the consent of both parents, confirmed by genetic scan. This was to discourage the creation of illegitimate offspring. The results of this, in the old Cardassia, were black market abortifacients with questionable side effects, anonymous abandonment of neonates, and murder of inconvenient lower-class or alien mistresses. Officially, any doctor caught performing or enabling an off-record pregnancy termination would lose their right to practice medicine, and face possible imprisonment. Unofficially, this law, like many others the Interim Governing Council had not got around to revising yet, was not being actively enforced, and Minister Claran’s usually meticulous record-keeping had a few holes in its obstetrics section.

This was a moot point, as Hestra had refused to consider that option at all. While Julian was determined to do everything in his power to keep both mother and child safe and in good health, the situation did leave him in a somewhat awkward position.

There was a rap at the side door to the consulting room, one that led to an emergency exit and storage. “It’s just me,” said a voice on the other side, as Julian tapped the panel on the door.

“So sorry I’m late,” said Darcy Frey, running his fingers through his hair. Hestra gave him a withering look. In another life, they would have made quite the handsome couple, if a picture in contrasts. Hestra, with her austere, angular face and delicate ridges, straight black hair drawn into an elegant knot on top of her head, faced her elicit paramour with thin-lipped distaste. Darcy, with his cherubic face, wide blue eyes and blond curls, blushed sheepishly, and avoided her eyes.

“Your presence would have added little to my examination,” said Hestra.

“Well then,” said Darcy, “Let’s move on to something I can be useful for.”

The plan had been taking shape over the last few months, nebulous in the early stages with so many uncertainties. That the fetus was developing faster than expected could be used to their advantage.

“My father will be overseeing a security upgrade on Cardassia II during the first week of the month of _Hec Wep’kir_. My husband will be assisting him. Would that be too early to induce labor?”

“If things continue progressing as they are now, then that should be fine. Not optimal, but safe enough.” Usually, Julian advised against inducing labor unless it was medically necessary. But in the circumstances, having both Marratt and Krim off-world was too fortuitous an opportunity to pass up. Hestra was expected to give birth in her own home, under the care of a private midwife. The midwife had been the one to recommend Julian as an expert on human and human hybrid physiology. Without Marratt and Krim present, it would be easy enough to claim premature labor with a fatal outcome. Stillborn and neonatal decedents were not accorded the same burial rites as other Cardassian citizens. Officially, infants did not become citizens until ten days after birth, when their names were filed with the Central Registry. Viewing the body of those who died before that point was considered taboo.

Darcy would raise the child with all the protections of a Federation citizen, and he would have no legal status on Cardassia at all.

* * *

The procedure for synthesizing the vaccine was simple enough; time consuming, but with high yield results. They would start a new batch after lunch, but it would take several days to complete. Several _long_ days.

There were no other humans in the hospital cafeteria. After they retrieved some sort of greenish porridge from a refrigeration unit, Amsha followed Dozia to a table in the corner. A few whispers followed them.

“Don’t let it concern you,” said Dozia. “You’re not the pariah here, I am.”

Amsha raised an eyebrow. “Would it be rude of me to ask why?”

“Yes,” said Dozia. “But don’t let that stop you. I find myself less and less concerned about social niceties these days.”

Amsha took her time chewing, uncertain what to say. Dozia picked at her own food, glowering, and then answered Amsha’s unasked question.

“I have some familial connections that are now considered unsavory.”

“That hardly seems fair. Aren’t there people in the interim government who have been forgiven their own crimes?” _My son-in-law, for instance._

“There is no worse crime than collaboration with the Dominion. Even indirect guilt tarnishes one’s character.”

“In the Federation, we don’t believe in punishing people for what their relatives have done.” _With a few exceptions, of course_.

“As I understand it, humans do not regard family as an institution of such high esteem as we do.”

“Most humans consider family of utmost importance.”

“Including your son?” asked Dozia. “I notice he has not joined us.”

“He wasn’t sure of his schedule. He did say he might be too busy.”

“On Cardassia, children are taught filial piety. They are taught to revere their parents. Her loud, sharp bark of laughter pierced the room, turning a few heads in the direction of their table. “But even here that does not mean they wish to spend time with them.”

“Do you have children?” asked Amsha quietly, as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

“I have one son and two daughters remaining. The youngest has not yet come of age.”

Amsha’s communication device chirped. “Julian?”

“ _Mother,_ ” acknowledged Julian. “ _I’ve got an emergency surgery this afternoon, so I won’t be able to make lunch. Unless anything else comes up, I’ll meet you in the lobby at 1800 hours._ ”

Amsha sighed. “Even when we’re in the same building, it still feels like he’s unreachable.”

“My daughters live on Cardassia III with their husbands. Neither has asked me to live with them, and both have refused my requests to return to my house with their families. Yet I feel closer to them than I do to my son, who still lives with me. Proximity is no guarantee of understanding, I’m afraid, or of rapport.”

A large oval screen on the far wall blinked to life; Amsha hadn’t even noticed it when they came in. Once again, heads turned, this time in the opposite direction.

_“This is Correspondent Rekelen reporting for the Prime Independent News Network. A confrontation between Restorationist agitators and citizens seeking medical attention has resulted in injuries and arrests on both sides. The demonstration has been disbanded by intraplanetary security forces. I’m here with Minister Marratt of the Interim Governing Council. Minister, many have criticized the government’s slow response to the RCN’s blockade, which some have labeled a terrorist action. How do you respond?”_

Amsha recognized Marratt from a picture in that Federation news feature on the Cardassian provisional government. He was a head taller than Rekelen, with broad shoulders and deep-set eyes. Supposedly, he was quite handsome by Cardassian standards.

_“Calling this unfortunate incident an act of terrorism is gross exaggeration.”_

_“Isn’t it the government’s responsibility to ensure its citizens’ access to the resources they’re entitled to? Resources vital to their health?”_

“Do you follow Cardassian politics?” asked Dozia, who was watching the broadcast with rapt attention.

“Not really,” said Amsha.

“That one is worth paying attention to,” said Dozia, nodding at Marratt.

“As I understand it,” said Amsha, “he’s against accepting Federation aid.”

“Among other things. If the rumors are true, he’s voiced opposition to many of the council’s official positions. Not his usual style,” she added.

Something in her tone made Amsha ask, “Do you know him?”

Dozia shrugged. “Marratt knows everyone. He used to consider himself everybody’s _friend_. I knew him casually, before the war. We had a… mutually beneficial arrangement, for a short time.”

On the screen, Marratt was smiling, affecting a reassuring tone. _“…I assure you, citizens of Cardassia have nothing to be concerned about. Tempers merely got out of hand, as may happen when passionate people disagree. I’m sure that there are good and reasonable people standing on both sides, today…”_

Dozia snorted. “Now there’s the Marratt I remember.”

* * *

Julian arrived 10 minutes late, pulling off his hospital smock as he approached her and shoving it into his bag. “The transporter is back online. This way.” He led Amsha down another unfamiliar dark hallway.

“I’m told you’ve been assigned to Dr. Berr’s lab, synthesizing the gettlepox vaccine,” he said. If he was aiming for a casual tone, he was failing.

“Yes,” said Amsha, warily. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No,” said Julian, too quickly. “Not exactly. But… do you have any idea who she is?”

“The volunteer coordinator said she was the former Minister of Science.”

“Well, yes, that too. But that’s not her only claim to fame,” said Julian. “She was once married to Gul Dukat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Julian's truce with Amsha is tested.


	15. Chapter 12: Until Now Gives Way to Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For Julian, Jules’ memories were like vague impressions of a dream world that might as well have been Wonderland for all the sense it made. They weren’t really his memories, after all. But sometimes, flashes of Jules’ emotions came through with shocking clarity._

When Julian and Amsha walked through the door, the whole house smelled like omelets and yamok sauce and kapsic’um (a Cardassian spice that tasted a bit like jalapenos). Being a man of innumerable hidden talents, Garak could cook well, though he complained incessantly about the quality of the ingredients currently available to him. (Julian supposed that was why he rarely cooked when they were on DS9.)

Galen careened into Julian’s legs before they’d made it two steps down the hallway. Julian made to scoop him up but he wriggled out of his grasp and turned to Amsha instead, begging her to come play a memory game with him that he had learned in school. An irrational surge of discontent flared up in the back of Julian’s mind, which he quickly squashed. He reminded himself that this was why Amsha was here; he wanted his son to have a warm and loving relationship with his grandmother. It was absurd to feel aggrieved just because the attachment had formed more quickly than he’d anticipated. Even so, twenty years of resentment and betrayal couldn’t be easily pushed aside.

He found Garak in the kitchen, wearing a long-sleeved brown apron that shielded every inch of his charcoal gray tunic. For a deadly assassin, the man could be absurdly adorable sometimes.

Julian crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. “Where on earth did you find regova eggs?”

“Certainly not on _Earth_ ,” said Garak, sparing only a brief glance in his direction.

“It’s just an expression.” Julian sauntered into the room and crept up behind him, sliding his arms around Garak’s solid waist. Garak pretended to ignore him when he rested his chin lightly on his shoulder, politely avoiding putting too much pressure on the more sensitive ridges. (Garak’s great Achilles heal was that he was incapable of ignoring Julian. He liked nothing better than being the center of Julian’s attention, and he could make quite a nuisance of himself if he felt he wasn’t getting enough of it. Pretending to ignore him was just one weapon in Garak’s vast arsenal of methods for _capturing_ Julian’s attention.) “We never did get around to discussing _The Viridescent Heart_. You were too busy complaining about humanity’s supposed Vulcan fetish.”

“I’ve observed another obsession in your literature that I find illuminating: the glorification of these so-called ‘star-crossed lover’ romances.”

“You’re not going to start in on _Romeo and Juliet_ again, are you?”

“I liked _Romeo and Juliet_.”

“Only because you completely misunderstood it.”

“Are you sure _you_ understood it? You think it’s a tragic _romance_.”

“It’s only the most famous tragic romance in the history of Earth fiction!”

“I fail to see how the hormonal urges of two insipid children can be classified as ‘romance.’ The story is clearly a warning about the dangers of disobedience, scorning familial obligation, and fraternizing with the enemy,” said Garak. “And on the subject of hormonal urges, _that_ is very distracting.”

Julian hummed against Garak’s neck and gave his arse another gentle squeeze. “I thought the well-disciplined Cardassian mind was immune to distraction.”

Garak spun around, his hands (and the handle of his spatula) landing on Julian’s hips. “Perhaps I have no interest in developing an immunity to you.”

“As if you could,” Julian murmured, leaning down to meet Garak’s lips with his own.

“Though I suspect this is just an underhanded attempt to avoid losing a debate. One that’s likely to result in a burned rittafa.”

Julian didn’t put much credence in that. Garak would never risk the humiliation of burning a meal, not even for the sake of feeling him up. “Underhanded? I’ll show you _underhanded_.”

A cough from the doorway ended any hypothetical danger of scorched rittafa. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” said Amsha.

Heat flooded Julian’s cheeks, before he reminded himself that he _was_ a grown man and therefore entitled to kiss his own husband in his own house whether or not his mother approved of him, his house, or his husband.

“Mrs. Bashir.” Garak inclined his head in her direction, his grip remaining firmly on Julian’s sides. After an unhurried peck on the lips, he stepped away, turning back to his cooking. “How was your day?”

“It went just fine,” said Amsha. “Quite busy.”

“She’s been assigned to work with Dozia Berr,” said Julian. It was entirely possible that Garak already knew.

Garak raised his eye ridges. “Our erstwhile leader’s erstwhile wife. My condolences.”

“She’s not so bad,” said Julian. “But tread a bit carefully, alright? She’s competent enough, but she may not be entirely… stable.”

“As usual, you’re being overly generous in your assessment,” said Garak. “Competency had nothing to do with her career in the Science Ministry.”

This opinion he shared with Dr. Claran, who had once cited her as, _“Another example of a mediocre intellect promoted over better qualified talent through the benefit of advantageous connections and social class.”_ Claran’s doubts about Berr were not limited to past conduct, either. She suspected Berr of synthesizing zolpida on the sly, but did not have sufficient evidence to support an accusation. The request for an assistant in that particular lab was unlikely to be a coincidence. A witness would make it trickier to make off with any chemicals.

Julian only knew Berr in passing. The scope of their interactions consisted of nothing more than a few terse greetings exchanged in the halls. Then again, no one interacted with Berr much. Julian couldn’t help but pity her, whatever she might have been before the war, though he doubted she would welcome _his_ sympathy.

“She’s given me no cause for complaint,” said Amsha. “She’s a fair supervisor.”

“That’s good,” said Julian. Perhaps it was a little petty to hope that the two women wouldn’t have the time or inclination for much conversation.

“Why do you think she may be unstable?” asked Amsha.

Before Julian could respond, Garak interjected. “She _was_ married to Dukat for three decades. That can scarcely be considered a sign of sanity.”

“He had her thrown in a Dominion prison when he was in power,” said Julian. “I doubt it was a very happy marriage.”

“Oh, Damar let her out a few months later,” said Garak, waving a dismissive hand.

“She also lost several of her children during the war.”

“Everyone lost family during the war. It hardly makes her a martyr. Judging by her past conduct, she would have been perfectly happy to enjoy all the trappings of Dukat’s elevated power, if she’d remained his wife. She only divorced him because he chose to acknowledge _one_ of his illegitimate children instead of murdering her - probably the only decent thing he ever did in his life, I might add. I wouldn’t say that reflects very well on Dr. Berr, would you?

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Julian. “But I can still extend my sympathy to her for what she’s suffered.” He turned back to his mother, who, though she remained quiet during their exchange, was following it closely, brow furrowed. “We don’t mean to alarm you with all this. I have no reason to think she’ll give _you_ any trouble.”

* * *

After dinner, Garak excused himself to do something-or-other in the garden (the dimness of twilight did not pose much difficulty for Cardassian eyes), and Galen shut himself up in his bedroom, alone.

“Leave him be,” said Julian, when Amsha made to follow him. “He just needs a bit of time to himself, sometimes.”

“If you’re sure.” Julian wondered if he was imagining the undertone of disapproval, if it was so ingrained in his interactions with his parents that he heard it whether or not it was really there.

They moved to the living room and settled in on the couch. Julian opened a medical journal on his PADD. In his peripheral vision, his mother tore a page from her sketch book and folded it in half, then turned it and folded it in half again. She repeated this action several more times — turn and fold, turn and fold — then unfolded the page and began to tear along the fold lines, until she had a neat stack of little paper rectangles. Flashcards, he realized, as she began carefully copying out chemical names and formulae in Kardasi. (Her handwriting in this language was far neater than his. She’d always had a talent for reproducing what she saw on paper.)

For Julian, Jules’ memories were like vague impressions of a dream world that might as well have been Wonderland for all the sense it made. They weren’t really his memories, after all. But sometimes, flashes of Jules’ emotions came through with shocking clarity. Now, without warning, sweat slickened his palms and his heart pounded hard and fast, like a prisoner desperate to escape his rib cage. His eyes left his PADD, drawn inexorably to the cards in his mother’s lap, confusion and dread coursing through him, sudden and sharp as a knife in the back. He wanted to scream. (The way Jules had screamed?)

Amsha noticed him staring an smiled. “What?”

He swallowed. “Did you ever use those with me when I was a child?”

“The flashcards?” Her head tilted to one side, considering. “Oh, yes. I’d completely forgotten. Your father could never understand why I use old-fashioned paper, but I’ve always felt that writing things out by hand helps make them stick.”

“It didn’t.” If he closed his eyes, he could feel frustration building like bile, ready to spew out of him. All those lines and squiggles and shapes meant nothing to him. He could not reproduce them with his hands. He could not match symbol to sound or meaning in his head.

“You always had trouble with pens and pencils,” said Amsha distantly, as if she too had wandered into the past. “And then you would throw tantrums.”

“That’s why you had them improve my dexterity. My hand-eye coordination.”

“Yes,” said Amsha. She met his eyes. “Because you needed it. We needed to do something for you. I tried so hard to help you learn, don’t you remember?”

“I—” His hands were shaking. It was always so much easier to rage against his father, who blustered and raged back.

She took his hand and squeezed it. “There was just so much you couldn’t understand. Conventional methods weren’t working for us.”

“But how many methods did you try? For how long? Did you consult with an education specialist? A physical therapist? Or was that too embarrassing for you?”

“Jules—”

“It’s _Julian_ ,” he hissed. He tried to stay calm, to keep his voice low so Galen wouldn’t overhear them. “There were even unconventional methods you might have turned to _before_ making my entire _existence_ illegal!”

“You don’t understand what it was like,” she said, holding fast to his hand so he wouldn’t pull away.

A polite cough interrupted the old dispute. “Julian?” Garak stood in the doorway, having appeared without either of them noticing. “My dear, I could use your assistance for a moment, if you’re not otherwise occupied.”

“Of course.” He resisted a glance back at his mother as he left, as if it might turn him into a pillar of salt.

He followed Garak into the garden. Compared to Earth, Cardassia was neither as bright by day nor as dark by night, and the glowing bark of the rokassa trees gave him sufficient light to see Garak’s expression, as long as they stood close together.

“I take it you don’t actually need my help with anything.”

“I have some experience in reading the signs of an impending breakdown,” said Garak. He took Julian’s hand and interlaced their fingers. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No,” said Julian, first shaking his head, then pulling Garak into a tight embrace. His next words were muffled against Garak’s shoulder. “God no. It’s always the same argument with them. I’m so tired of beating my head against that particular brick wall.”

“I would hate to see such damage inflicted on a face as lovely as yours,” murmured Garak.

He didn’t flinch anymore, Julian realized. Garak used to flinch when Julian hugged him like this. It was yet another of the many contradictions to unravel in the mystery that was Elim Garak. Their relationship had always had a tactile quality, from the end of their first meeting when Garak had sent a jolt of electricity down his spine with a simple squeeze of the shoulder. Years later, he never showed any reservations about Julian’s probing hands exploring every inch of his body, always eager to have Julian’s tongue or fingers or cock plumbing the depths of his most intimate parts. But give the man a hug, and he flinched, and for a split second stood at a loss for how to respond. Any instinct for giving or receiving comfort must have been trained out of him. His experience was in inducing emotional turmoil, not soothing it.

Taking Julian outside was not merely Garak’s way of separating him from the perceived cause of his distress; it was how Garak alleviated his own distress: by removing himself from confinement. Julian felt some measure of pride at having been the one to uncover that tiny spark of compassion that Tain and the Order had failed to completely obliterate, and to nurture it into a steady glowing ember, if not a flame. Garak was willing to try to be what Julian needed, in spite of a lifetime’s worth of education decrying the evils of sentiment.

“She still thinks they did the right thing,” said Julian. “And how can I counter that, when I have no way of knowing what Jules would have been—what he _could_ have been, if they hadn’t given up on him so quickly. Do you have any idea how variable human development can be? Developmental delays and learning disabilities are not insurmountable problems, or an indication that an individual’s entire _life_ is doomed to failure.”

“But knowing the alternative, that life, however hypothetically successful it may have been, is not the one you would prefer to have.”

“No,” agreed Julian, “and that’s the worst of it.” He sat down cross-legged on the ground, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t _want_ to be Jules. I _like_ the life I have. I want to be here with you and Galen, and I can’t help but think that if my parents hadn’t done what they did, we never would have met. And even if Jules had somehow ended up on Deep Space 9, I doubt you would have found him very interesting.”

Garak sat down next to him. “Perhaps not. It is equally likely that Jules would not have found my company very enjoyable, either. But I don’t see why that should matter to us in the slightest. There are an infinite number of points in our histories where our paths might have diverged in such a way that we never met at all. You once explained to me the Terran concept of ‘soulmates.’ My opinion on this subject has not changed: they do not and cannot exist. We are not here together because of fate or destiny or the interference of stars. That does not mean I love you any less.”

“That was awfully direct, for you. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were quite the romantic under all that hardened cynicism.”

Garak’s hand rose to his chest in mock affront. “I see no reason to insult me.”

Julian snatched his hand and kissed his knuckles, soothingly. “How thoughtless of me, dear. You are nothing but a ruthlessly pragmatic vessel of state service.”

“Thank you.” He rose, grimacing when his joints cracked. Julian followed suit, grinning as Garak vigorously brushed dust off his clothes. “You are always insisting that the ends don’t justify the means. Do you believe that your current satisfaction with the trajectory of your life justifies your parents actions?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You have no reason to feel guilty over that which you had no control, and cannot change. Do stop torturing yourself over it, my dear.”

Easier said than done, but he knew that in this instance Garak was right. Jules was beyond his help; all he could do for him now was find vestiges of him within himself, and try to grant him the understanding his parents could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: an Interlude.


	16. Interlude: Balanced and Serene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean it can’t scare you,” said Garak firmly. “No, it isn’t just you - everyone is afraid of things that only exist in their imaginations.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed from [This Be The Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013896/chapters/52533703).

A few weeks ago, this room had been a sort of storage-hold-cum-office-cum-sewing-room, containing a hodgepodge of salvaged miscellanea, a few bolts of fabric kept from _Garak’s Clothiers_ , PADDs and isolinear rods stacked on top of the unused bed, and an old dresser serving as a makeshift table. Now the dresser was empty of clutter, filled instead with a handful of small shirts, trousers, and socks. The odds and ends had been relocated to the attic and other parts of the house. Clean sheets and blankets lay on the bed, tucked snuggly around a sleeping half-Cardassian, half-Romulan child, clutching a brand new teddy bear. (This had arrived in a box sent by the O’Briens.) 

Julian and Garak sat on the floor, hardly daring to breathe let alone talk. Galen was thrilled at the prospect of having his own bedroom, but nervous about sleeping alone in it. From what they’d been able to determine, he and his mother had shared a single room in the basement of the house where she worked as a servant. The Center for Unconnected Children had large, overcrowded dormitories. Privacy was an unfathomable luxury for Galen, enticing and frightening all at once. 

“Perhaps,” whispered Garak, “one of us should remain here tonight.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” said Julian. He plucked a loose thread from the carpet. “Is that being too overprotective?” 

“You’re the one with the _extensive_ experience in pediatrics, psychology, and childcare.”

“I never said I had extensive experience in childcare. I just said I’d done some babysitting for the O’Briens.”

“Baby…sitting?” Garak raised his eye ridges. “Is that a human method of restraining recalcitrant children?”

Julian rolled his eyes. “It’s idiomatic. It just means looking after children while their parents are out. Which I suspect you already know.” 

In response, Garak merely raised his finger to his lips and glanced over at Galen, who was stirring in his sleep. 

Julian’s brain entered yellow alert before he consciously registered any signs of distress. It started with a twitch and a flutter of eyelids. A murmur. Then, violent thrashing seized Galen’s limbs and Julian was at his side, shaking him awake with gentle hands. Galen was hyperventilating, his heart racing, and his eyes darted around the room without ever focusing on Julian’s face. Julian rubbed his back and spoke to him quietly while he gasped for breath, tears streaming down his face. 

“Take his hand. I’m going to get my medkit,” said Julian, in what he thought of as his ‘keep calm and carry on’ voice. The key to taking charge in any crisis was to project a steadiness you didn’t necessarily feel. Garak’s eyes widened infinitesimally, but he took Julian’s place without hesitation. It appeared to be a panic attack, but the labored breathing concerned Julian enough to take additional precautions. 

He needn’t have bothered.

“Breathe out, my dear. Keep exhaling until you can’t anymore. Try to expel all the air from your lungs. Good. Very good. Take a deep breath. Now take your bear, and tell me about him. Anything you can see.” 

Galen whimpered, choking back a sob. Julian hovered in the doorway, watching. 

“It’s alright, Galen, you’re going to be fine. Just tell me everything you see. It’s not a test - there aren’t any wrong answers. But sometimes when we’re afraid of things that aren’t real, it helps to focus on something that is, like Lakatwo here.”

Galen shook his head violently. “N-n-no, I shouldn’t—I’m not s-s-supposed to be—” The anguish in that unfinished thought broke Julian’s heart. 

“Just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean it can’t scare you,” said Garak firmly. “No, it isn’t just you - everyone is afraid of things that only exist in their imaginations.”

Galen took another ragged, gasping breath. “Even Julian?” 

“Yes, even Julian.”

“Even you?” 

“Yes, even me. Breathe out again, my dear, nice and slow. Breathe in. Now, tell me, how many ears does Lakatwo have?”

“Um, t-two.” 

“Good. Now breathe out. And in. What color are his ears?”

“Brown.” 

This time, he exhaled and inhaled without prompting. “How are they shaped?”

“Round. Um. Half-circles?”

“Yes, you’re doing very well, child.” Another exhalation, another inhalation. “What do they feel like?” 

“Fluffy and soft.” Garak handed him the bear, and he clutched it to his chest, petting its fuzzy head. 

“Keep going. Just tell me everything you see, every detail you can think of. And breathe just like that when I tell you to.” 

Galen worked through his description of the toy in excruciatingly minute detail, punctuated by Garak’s instructions to breathe. Julian hovered silently nearby, monitoring Galen’s vitals with his tricorder, signaling to Garak when everything returned to normal. Soon Galen was exhausted, but otherwise fine. Garak pulled him into an embrace and told him he could stop.

“You’ve done very well, Galen,” said Julian, rubbing his back. “You’re going to be fine.” 

Galen nodded without looking up, face pressed against Garak’s chest. Now that Galen’s eyes were averted, Garak’s face was unnaturally blank. Julian was familiar enough with this expression to have deduced its meaning: it was the expression Garak wore whenever he was trying to mask some strong emotion. 

“Would you like Elim to read to you?” asked Julian. 

Galen dried his eyes on Garak’s shirt, sniffed, and nodded. He fell asleep a few pages into _The Sky People_ , from _Ancient Hebitian Myths: A Collection for Modern Children,_ a book which had been banned during Garak’s own childhood. Julian only heard snatches of the tale as he busied himself moving an assortment of blankets to create a nest on Galen’s floor. He doubted either of them would sleep much, but if Galen woke up again, they would both be there for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dozia Berr offers Amsha her own perspective on Garak's past.


	17. Chapter 13: It's Harder When You're Older to Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As it was, she had no idea how to start a conversation with Dozia today. So, I’ve heard you were married to the most infamous man in the quadrant. What was that like?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technobabble courtesy of [this name generator](http://donjon.bin.sh/scifi/name/#star_trek).

Amsha materialized at Central Hospital the next morning in a state of some trepidation. She almost wished Julian hadn’t told her anything about Dr. Berr; it would only make things awkward. As it was, she had no idea how to start a conversation with Dozia today. _So, I’ve heard you were married to the most infamous man in the quadrant. What was that like?_

But as soon as she entered the lab, Dozia took one look at her face and let out another of those sharp, startling barks of laughter that Amsha found so disquieting.

“Your son must have some sense of filial duty after all. He told you who I am.”

“He told me that you were married to Gul Dukat. I don’t know that that tells me who you are.”

“I daresay it tells you a great deal,” said Dozia.

Work progressed, as it so often did in a laboratory, in bursts of activity followed by dull periods of waiting. During one of these lulls, Dozia said, with remarkable casualness, “Did your son happen to mention that you and I just missed being blood enemies?”

“Blood enemies?”

“Your son-in-law interrogated my former father-in-law, and presented the evidence that led to his execution.”

“Evidence obtained under torture,” guessed Amsha, feeling sick.

“That is standard practice during an interrogation,” said Dozia. “Though not, I suppose, in the Federation. If it makes you feel any better, torture and execution were exactly what he deserved. Skrain never could accept his father’s guilt, and he never forgave Garak for exposing him. He thought exile was too good for him.”

“What did you think?”

“I was a good military wife. I thought whatever my husband wanted me to think,” said Dozia. “It wasn’t just the interrogation Skrain found despicable. It was the investigation leading up to it. Garak collected the most damning evidence by earning Procal Dukat’s trust. That is the only error Skrain would allow that his father ever committed, which is a rather narrow view of things. My father-in-law, you see, had a certain weakness for pretty young men. Twenty-five years ago, your son-in-law was a very pretty young man. Very charming. Very ingratiating. So very eager to please. Poor Procal quite lost his head long before the executioner shot it off. And I believe the betrayal increased his admiration, in spite of the outcome. Skrain never could abide that. But then, sons can hardly be objective about their fathers.”

“What do you make of him now?”

Dozia gave her a closed-mouth, tight-lipped smile. “You’re worried, aren’t you? That your son would marry such a man.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know him now. I hardly knew him then. But I don’t think any of us are the same people we were twenty-five years ago. We’ve certainly had more objectionable people in power in recent years, my ex-husband included. I can only hope that he and the other ministers will put Cardassia above their own political ambitions.”

“ _Inshallah_ ,” said Amsha.

“I’m afraid my UT didn’t get that.”

“It’s Arabic - an Earth language. It means ‘if God wills it.’”

“I thought Terrans didn’t believe in gods anymore.”

“Some do. But it’s just an expression, really. Something to say when you speak of the future. Many of our idioms, exclamations, and expletives have a religious origin, if you go back far enough.”

Amsha was struck with a sudden flash of memory: Julian, age 15 or 16, sitting sullenly at the dinner table with his nose in a textbook, responding to her attempts to engage him in conversation with monosyllabic answers. It was a history of human religions, or a book on the role of religion in human history, something along those lines. After she’d given up trying to get him to communicate, he said, without prompting, _“Did you know that our ancestors would have considered it_ haraam _to radically alter a person’s DNA?”_

A timer went off, and work resumed.

* * *

With the Restorationists becoming increasingly bold and vocal, the Interim Governing Council elected to accept Starfleet’s assistance in upgrading the security around Federation distribution sites and public clinics. (Marratt cast a dissenting vote, which seemed a good reason to vote in favor of it.) While Garak had never been overly impressed with Starfleet’s security protocols, they often made up for their lack of sensible precautions in the sophistication of their technology and the quality of their engineers, who even Garak would admit generally lived up to their hyperbolic reputation.

Garak, who had some experience himself in matters of security, was overseeing the work. The _Enterprise_ had lent their own chief engineer and operations officer to the project.

Although chief engineer of the Federation flagship was undoubtedly a vaunted and prestigious position, Garak found himself wishing instead for Chief O’Brien, who had more experience with Cardassian systems and was also far more entertaining to provoke. Indeed, La Forge, a consummate professional if ever there was one, had rather snippily rebuffed all Garak’s attempts to engage him in conversation, and had flatly refused a polite request to try out his VISOR.

“Geordi’s VISOR is specifically configured to his neural pathways, so it will not work for anyone else without significant restructuring. I am also uncertain if it would properly interface with a Cardassian brain at all,” explained Lieutenant Commander Data, whose hands flew over the panel for the gravitronic degeneration sensor with such speed that even Garak’s keen eyes couldn’t keep up.

The VISOR could, in fact, be made to serve as Cardassian eyes nearly as well as it served for human eyes. Some years ago, Garak had appropriated an early prototype of this particular model and assisted with some of the necessary reconfiguration. The agent who eventually received it did have to sacrifice his own natural vision to the project, and Garak still wasn’t sure whether the selection of the agent in question was intended by Tain as a punishment or a reward.

“Oh?” Garak put on his best expression of wide-eyed innocence. “What a pity. Medical cybernetics used to be something of a hobby of mine.”

“It is also an interest of mine,” said Data. “I have sometimes discussed it with Dr. Bashir in our correspondence.”

“ _Really_? I didn’t know you were acquainted with my husband.”

The arrival of a missive from Data usually caused Julian to gush like a ruptured sanitation pipe. Garak sometimes lamented that every plan proposed by an operative for abducting Starfleet’s prized android had ultimately been shot down as too high risk. Now that he had seen Data for himself, he could better understand Julian’s enthusiasm. It would have been a shame to see such a marvel of machinery dismantled in an Obsidian Order laboratory.

“We met when the _Enterprise-D_ was docked at _Deep Space 9_ eight years ago. Will he be attending the reception tomorrow on the _Enterprise_?”

“Yes, assuming he doesn’t get called away for any medical emergencies.”

“I look forward to seeing him,” said Data. “We have frequently communicated remotely since our last meeting. He has often spoken of you.” Data tilted his head. “Though he often seemed to question both your motivations and your veracity.”

“He’s an intelligent young man,” said Garak, smiling brightly.

“Hm,” said Data. “Then you believe that he was correct to regard you with suspicion?”

“Everyone should be regarded with suspicion.”

From somewhere in the bowels of the transceiver array, La Forge snorted and muttered something too low for Cardassian ears to catch.

“I have observed that most humans consider honesty and trust to be vital components of a marriage,” continued Data. “Is this not the case for Cardassians?”

“My dear Mr. Data, I think you will find that there is a vast difference between dishonesty and distrust.”

“You posit that honesty is not necessary for trust?”

They were interrupted by La Forge’s re-emergence from the transceiver array. “The axial confinement regulator’s been successfully realigned. How are you doing, Data?”

“The sensor has been upgraded.”

“Great. In that case—” La Forge tapped his comm badge. “La Forge to Enterprise. We’re done here. You can beam us to the next location.”

 _“Affirmative._ ” There was a pause, during which they failed to dematerialize. “ _There’s some interference at the next beam-in coordinates, sir. Please stand-by._ ”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said La Forge. “Minister Garak—”

Garak was already busy ringing up Minister Lang on his PADD.

_“Garak! Are you still at the clinic in Niram?”_

“Yes. Some interference at the Ansel’mot distribution center has prevented us from beaming in.”

Lang’s expression was grim. “There’s been a bombing.”

* * *

_“This is Correspondent Rekelen reporting from Ansel’mot, where a Federation distribution center has been destroyed.”_

Amsha’s head snapped up, not to the cafeteria viewscreen, but to the sound of coughing across from her. Dozia shushed her when she started to ask if she was alright, clamping a hand over her gray lips and gesturing towards the screen.

_“Preliminary reports from Intraplanetary Security suggest that the explosion was caused by a crudely constructed device composed of an industrial waste byproduct. The assessment of casualties is still underway. The explosion occurred at 0300 hours in local time, when the center was closed to the public. However, homeless citizens have been known to take shelter in or around the building after hours. Spokespersons from the Federation Assistance and Relief Organization have stated that the center contained an industrial replicator and approximately 2000 kilograms of field rations. Members of the group Restore Cardassia Now have been detained for questioning. Their representatives deny all involvement and disavow the bombing as an act of terrorism.”_

“How awful,” said Amsha.

Dozia took a sip of water before replying. “We had a house there once. Ansel’mot. My son was there only yesterday, visiting his brother’s grave.”

“You must be relieved that he returned safely, before the bombing,” said Amsha.

Dozia nodded affirmation, but her eyes looked haunted.

* * *

They finished the last batch of the vaccine early, and Julian was going to be working late.

“Come have a drink with me.” Dozia’s requests usually sounded more like commands, but Amsha was grateful all the same. She’d been feeling a bit nervous about venturing to the hospital’s transporter room on her own (not to mention potentially having to make small talk with her son-in-law when she arrived back at the cottage).

“Alright,” she said. “Where?”

Amsha still started at the sound of Dozia’s unique laugh. “At the _Vole_.”

Dozia swept out of the lab without further explanation. Amsha blinked and scrambled after her.

The _Vole_ turned out to be a makeshift pub stuck in amidst the sea of tents and modular units surrounding the hospital. A hand-drawn sign over the tent flap read _The Vole’s Head_ in a large, uneven scrawl, next to a rough sketch of a Cardassian vole. The majority of the patrons were FARO volunteers, mostly human, though a few other Federation species were represented as well. There were also a handful of Cardassians in hospital uniforms. A small Federation replicator sat in one corner, but most people seemed to be drinking the stock from behind the bar, where a rainbow of bottles sat crammed precariously onto a few tall shelves.

“The most illustrious families of our illustrious planet used to judge each other by the size of the kanar cellars in our grand houses. Now the illustrious families and all the grand houses are gone, but we’ve been left with plenty of good kanar.” Unlike in the hospital’s cafeteria, nobody in _The_ _Vole’s Head_ turned at the sound of Dozia’s laughter.

“I’ve never tried kanar,” said Amsha.

“I’ll get us a bottle.” She waved a hand vaguely at a few empty tables. “Go find us a seat.”

Amsha sat down at the nearest empty table and sent a quick note to Julian letting him know where she was. Dozia returned with an undulating bottle of viscous orange liquid and two glasses, which she set on the table before Amsha.

“Cheers,” said Amsha, raising her glass before taking a tentative sip. Her companion had thrown back her head to swallow a large mouthful, and missed the grimace that passed over Amsha’s face. By the time Dozia was pouring herself a second glass, Amsha had only tried a few sips of her own.

“Don’t like it much, do you?”

“It’s… interesting,” said Amsha. It tasted rather like an intensely alcoholic sweet-and-sour sauce, with an unpleasantly thick and glutinous texture.

“Most humans don’t care for it,” said Dozia. She snorted into her drink. “I suppose by introducing it to you I’m denying the Minister of Culture an opportunity to perform his function as cultural ambassador.” She knocked back the remainder of her glass in a few loud, deep gulps, then immediately poured herself a third. “Minister of Culture! Ha! I’d love to know how he managed that one. He’s a tricky one, your son-in-law.”

“So it would seem,” said Amsha.

“I don’t see why _he_ should be forgiven everything, just because he turned Starfleet lackey when the Obsidian Order exiled him. Everyone knows that taking an agent out of the Order can’t take the Order out of the agent. But he’s running the Union now, and I’m stuck in a basement doing the work of a novice lab technician! _Me_! The Minister of Science,” she slurred. “ _I_ should be on that Council. _I_ had nothing to do with Skrain’s career. I hardly saw the man for most of our marriage. He was on Bajor cavorting with his Bajoran whores and trying not to get assassinated. I’ve never even been to Bajor! That was _his_ obsession. I had my own position and our children to look after. No one can say I haven’t done my duty to Cardassia. I’ve borne seven children for the State, and now the three I have left blame me for—” She waved her arm around as she ranted, sloshing kanar down the sides of her glass. “—for all this!”

Dozia paused to wipe a few drops of alcohol off the table with her sleeve, then continued, at a lower volume, “Especially Mekor. He’s never forgiven me for divorcing Skrain when he would have ruined us all by acknowledging that half-Bajoran bastard of his. Mekor believes that I could have persuaded him not to acknowledge the girl, or better yet, convinced him to dispose of her. He thinks I just wanted an excuse to turn my back on him, that I put my own desires above Cardassia. He thinks it’s _my_ fault Skrain got in bed with the Dominion. But he’s not much for filial piety, these days. And now he’s got those damned Restorationists whispering in his ear.”

At that point, Dozia ran out of energy for her diatribe. Her head dropped down on the table and she burst into tears.

The force of the disdain in that ‘half-Bajoran bastard” invective hit Amsha like a brick. She wondered if the disgust would have been as vehement if she were referring to a fully Cardassian child. But all the same, no one could watch the woman weep like that and not feel for her, so Amsha scooted her chair closer so she could rub soothing circles on Dozia’s back, hoping she wasn’t violating some Cardassian taboo by doing so. When Dozia fell into shuddering silence, Amsha said, “Children don’t always understand that we’re just trying to do what’s best for them.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind an echo of Julian’s voice intruded: _“How many methods? For how long? Did you consult with an education specialist? A physical therapist? There were unconventional methods you might have turned to before making my entire existence illegal!”_

Dozia hiccuped, and raised her head, offering Amsha a wan smile. “Our children are our life’s blood. An extension of ourselves. Our shame is their shame, and their shame is ours.”

A shadow fell across them, and a male voice said, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Ah, there you are, Frey,” said Dozia. Amsha guessed he was a regular patron. Dozia wiped her eyes, and her smiled widened. “What do you know about it? You don’t have any children.”

“I do have parents,” said Darcy. “And I prefer to think of myself as an autonomous entity. May I?” he asked, indicating an empty seat.

“Of course,” said Amsha. With Dozia in her current state, she was grateful for additional company that was both human and sober.

“Do you sleep with Cardassians, Frey?” asked Dozia.

“Not if they’re drunk, Dr. Berr.”

“You’re less attractive when I’m sober. Not enough neck,” said Dozia. “I don’t understand what Garak sees in human males.”

From what Amsha had seen of Julian’s neck this morning, it wasn’t a feature Garak found off-putting.

“I’m sure Minister Garak is interested in more than just Dr. Bashir’s neck,” said Darcy. “Amsha, I’m glad I’ve run into you. I’ve been meaning to contact you all day, but you know how it is - just one thing after another. Minor catastrophes everywhere I turn.” He shook his head. “You missed the announcement since you’re not staying in FARO residence quarters, but we’re organizing a charity event hosted by one of the minister’s daughters at the end of the week. You’re scheduled to assist. All the details are here.” He handed her a small data rod.

Darcy stayed to chat with them for a few minutes, which had the effect of pulling Dozia out of the maudlin phase of her drinking binge. When Julian finally arrived, she had moved on to complaining about how Minister Claran and others in the hospital administration failed to appreciate her.

Amsha rose quickly at her son’s entrance, but he held up a hand. “One moment, Mother. I just need a quick word with Darcy before we leave.”

“I wonder what that was about,” said Amsha.

Dozia shrugged, her interest now returning to her kanar.

Whatever it was didn’t take long to sort out, and soon she and Julian were heading back inside the hospital. A dark cloud hovered over her son, and he brooded in silence as they walked, hardly taking notice of her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Long day, that’s all,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

Whatever it really was, it wasn’t something he was willing to share with _her_. As soon as they arrived back at the cottage, he said to Galen, “Why don’t you show your nana around Yadik’s garden while it’s still light out. She hasn’t seen it yet.”

Amsha knew a dismissal when she heard one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to start posting links to new chapter uploads at [my tumblr](https://vermin-disciple.tumblr.com/), so feel free to follow me over there. (Fair warning, though: most of the time I just reblog cute animal gifs.)
> 
> Next time: Julian has a troubling encounter with Hestra Marratt's husband.


	18. Chapter 14: Trying Not to Spin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He sifted through his recent actions and could find no obvious source for Julian’s ire, which perturbed him. If he was going to do something that upset his husband, he preferred to do it consciously and after giving the matter due consideration._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who has commented and/or left kudos on this so far! (I know I can be a bit terrible about consistently responding to comments, but I want you to know that receiving them always makes my day.) And sorry for the delay! I realized that this chapter needed a bit of last minute revising. 
> 
> CW: References to sexual assault.

Julian rubbed his temples. In spite of the relief coursing through him, the spike of adrenaline he’d suffered at the news of the bombing had not yet subsided, and his whole body felt on edge. He’d finally heard back from Garak after several uninformative exchanges with his secretary. Garak (being Garak) wasn’t willing to concede that it was mere good luck that had saved him, and suspected that the Restorationists did not yet have the audacity to outright murder either government ministers or Starfleet officers. At the moment, Julian was far more focused on the fact that Garak _was_ alive and unharmed, and had not yet moved on to any in depth consideration of _why_.

The door to the exam room he had taken refuge in slid open. Julian snapped to attention, rising quickly to his feet.

“Krim.” Julian didn’t bother hiding his scowl. “I don’t have time for this.”

Minister Marratt’s son-in-law smirked at him. “And I’d heard such good things about your bedside manner.”

“Get out. I don’t know who let you in, but there are people here with real medical needs. Whatever advantage Marratt is hoping to gain from this, it’s not going to work.”

Officially, Krim was one of the aides on Marratt’s staff. Unofficially, he was the one who did Marratt’s dirty work.

“I’m not here for Marratt,” said Krim. “I’m here for my wife.”

Julian kept his expression neutral. “Your wife can make an appointment for herself, if she wants one.”

“She has, even though she already has a doctor. A _Cardassian_ doctor. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

“Get to the point, Krim. Assuming you have one.”

Krim stood up and took a menacing step forward. He was a few inches taller than Julian, and much wider. Julian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “She needed a _human_ doctor for her _human_ child! I know you performed a genetic scan, and now you’re going to tell me what piece of _Federaji_ —” Krim used a word that neither Julian nor his universal translator was familiar with “—did this to her!”

“If your wife is one of my patients then I’m not going to discuss her information with you or anyone else. Even if it weren’t against hospital policy and standard medical ethics, I still wouldn’t tell you anything. I’m here to treat my patients, not get involved in their domestic disputes.”

With visible effort, Krim reigned in his temper. It looked like a painful process. “This isn’t a matter of domestic dispute, doctor. It’s a matter of _violation_.”

Julian blinked. “Did _she_ say that?”

“She didn’t need to say anything. The evidence speaks for itself.”

Julian rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “Because clearly it’s beyond the realm of possibility that any Cardassian might sleep with a human by choice.”

“I don’t deny that a few people have such unnatural proclivities, but my wife is not one of them.” This was an extreme view even by Cardassian standards. Most Cardassians didn’t have strong objections to _sleeping_ with other species, just marrying or reproducing with them.

“If your wife chooses to make a formal accusation before the Ministry of Justice, I will of course comply with any _official_ request for information deemed necessary for their investigation.”

“My wife is a proud woman. She cannot be expected to admit to such a humiliating and painful experience in a public forum. She can’t even bring herself to admit it to me or her father. We found it out through other means.”

“What other means?” said Julian.

Krim seemed to realize he had said too much. “That’s not your concern. You should just be concerned with helping me identify the man who did this. I know the hospital has records for all the Federation volunteers.”

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Marratt could arrange a genetic scan himself, but he needed the hospital records to compare it to. “I’m not going to give you your wife’s confidential medical information - what makes you think I’m going to give you the confidential records of the entire contingent of Federation aid workers?”

Without warning, Krim lunged for him, both hands aiming for Julian’s throat. But Julian was too quick for him; he ducked, and slammed an elbow into Krim’s stomach with enough force to knock the air out of him.

“Now then,” said Julian, “I have legitimate patients to see, and if you try that again, you’re going to be one of them.”

“You stink of Cardassian pheromones,” snarled Krim, still doubled over. “It’s disgusting.”

“I’m sorry it offends you,” said Julian. “Unlike the spouses of some Cardassian politicians, I actually _enjoy_ sleeping with my husband. Now get out before I call security.”

Krim looked like he was seriously considering whether it would be worthwhile to take another swing at him, before deciding against it. Before opening the door, he shot Julian a venomous look. “You march around our planet acting like you’re so much better than we are. Well, none of you are going to be here for much longer, not after this comes out.”

Julian didn’t like the sound of that any more than he’d liked the rest of the conversation. He was less concerned about Krim than he was about Marratt. How had Marratt known? Surely even Cardassian politicians didn’t habitually perform covert genetic scans on their unborn grandchildren, unless _something_ aroused their suspicions. He would have to ask Garak.

 _Garak_. He was struck with a horrible suspicion himself. Cardassian politics had always been a game of leverage and blackmail, and old habits died hard. Family was everything, and so the families of public figures had never been exempt. An interspecies affair might make for very good leverage indeed. If Marratt or his cronies had the skills necessary to hack into the hospitals records, Krim would hardly be in here throwing his weight around. But Garak could do it in his sleep, and Marratt had been needling him for _months_.

Assuming his surmise was correct, it was probably hypocritical for him to be upset by this. It ranked very low indeed on the list of Garak’s sins. Would he have done more than roll his eyes if it had been some other doctor’s files? Was he angry about the infringement of his patient’s privacy or merely the encroachment on his own territory? It was one thing for Garak to covertly monitor his vital signs for his own peace of mind and quite another for him to invade Julian’s professional realm for crass political maneuvering. He had worked hard to carve out a place for himself here that was outside of Garak’s influence, and he despised the idea of being seen merely as Garak’s pet human.

Then there was that lingering fear, always gnawing at the back of his mind, that as much as he wanted to trust Garak, he never really could.

* * *

“Dr. Bashir.” If Hestra was surprised or concerned by his call, it didn’t show on her austere face. “You have news.”

“It’s Krim. He just payed me a visit. He knows the baby isn’t his and that the father is human. He came here to try and get a name out of me.”

“A target,” said Hestra, nodding. “I trust you did not give him one.”

“I didn’t,” said Julian. “He thinks that the conception was non-consensual.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Hestra, flatly. “Though I don’t doubt he would prefer it that way.”

Julian chose not to comment on just how horrible that was. “He may try to get the information he wants out of you, next. I don’t think you’re safe. Is there anywhere you can go? Anyone you can stay with?”

“He will not harm me in my father’s house. He does not dare.”

There was no way to put this delicately. “What about your father? When he finds out, you might be in danger from him as well.”

“I doubt it,” said Hestra. “His political career would suffer for it, in the current climate.”

One of the goals of the Division for Dispossessed Persons was to reunite families. Most had been separated by the war, but in some cases the war became the impetus for healing previous estrangements. Julian had witnessed a few such reunions in his time working for that department. Families were desperate to rebuild after so much monumental loss, and a politician disowning his daughter would not be looked on favorably now, whatever the reason. Julian trusted Marratt’s ambitions far more than he trusted his morals or paternal affections, but even so, he had his doubts about what Marratt might do.

“Maybe,” said Julian. “But is that really a risk you want to take?”

“Thank you, Doctor, but you need not be concerned on my behalf. I have certain information about both of the men in question that I trust will protect me. They can be made to understand that my plan is in their own best interests.”

“Does that protection extend to the baby’s father?”

“Of course. The child’s future depends on his. I would not be carrying this infant to term if I didn’t want it to live and thrive.”

In all their appointments, Hestra maintained a matter-of-fact demeanor, carefully masking whatever her feelings were about the entire situation. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that she would continue in that vein. His own trepidation would not be quashed so easily.

* * *

In a stroke of good luck, at the end of his shift Julian found Darcy Frey in _The Vole’s Head_ , chatting with Amsha and Dr. Berr.

“One moment mother. I just need a quick word with Darcy before we leave.”

He led Darcy to the most secluded corner he could find, and spoke in a whisper too quiet for Cardassian ears. “I just had a visit from Krim. He knows the child isn’t his.”

Darcy stood stock still, wide-eyed.

“He doesn’t know who the father is, but he does know the father is human.”

“And he knows you’ve been treating her.” Darcy shuddered visibly. “It’s only a matter of time before he works it out.”

“Possibly,” said Julian. “I’ve already spoken to Hestra.”

“Is she alright?” asked Darcy.

“If she’s concerned she isn’t letting it show. She seemed confident enough that she could keep both of you safe.”

Darcy leaned against the nearest table and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “I won’t feel safe until my son and I are both back on Earth.”

* * *

Julian only forcibly dragged Garak into the bedroom for one of two reasons: arousal or anger. These were usually mutually exclusive. (Certainly Garak enjoyed a good argument as a prelude to sex - not to mention during and after - but true anger was not the emotion involved in those sorts of arguments.) When the door slid shut, one look at Julian’s face told him that this conversation was not likely to result in any impromptu fellatio in honor of his latest brush with death. He sifted through his recent actions and could find no obvious source for Julian’s ire, which perturbed him. If he was going to do something that upset his husband, he preferred to do it consciously and after giving the matter due consideration.

“What the hell did you tell Marratt about his daughter’s pregnancy?”

Garak blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but that certainly wouldn’t have made the list. It was difficult to determine how best to… massage the truth without further information, so he said, “What do _you_ know of Hestra Marratt’s pregnancy?”

“What _I_ know falls under doctor-patient confidentiality. How you know anything about it is another question I’d like an answer to.”

“I know very little about Ms. Marratt, beyond the obvious,” he said. “I take it I was correct in my supposition that her husband isn’t her child’s father.”

“You just supposed that, did you,” said Julian, his voice a flat monitone. “Just a lucky guess.”

Garak offered him a placating smile. “Julian, the girl is not likely to suffer any serious repercussions. It may even work out in her favor. The usual course for men like Marratt is to act as though nothing is amiss and after a suitable time has passed, pay off their sons-in-law and arrange a quiet divorce. It’s nearly unheard of for public figures to take any sort of action against their own children or grandchildren, as long as they’re still legally recognized as such. Pretending the child is legitimate is the much more sensible option.”

Offing one’s less publicly visible illegitimate offspring _was_ traditionally considered acceptable, and often argued to be an act of mercy, even kindness. (On more than one occasion, when some Gul or politician’s bastard became the subject of Order operations, Tain had invited Garak to debate this old philosophical question with him as if it was nothing more than a piece of abstract esoterica to intellectualize over. Garak had never been sure whether this was meant as a test, or merely an expression of Tain’s perverse sense of humor.)

Julian put his hands on Garak’s shoulders and gave him a hard, searching look. Finally, his own shoulders sagged and he exhaled slowly. “You really don’t know.” He sat down on the bed with his head in his hands. Garak found himself even more perturbed by this. For most of his life, he had tried to stay in a position of holding more pertinent facts for any given situation than anyone else in the room. If there was one thing he really hated, it was being caught unawares. That _Julian_ should know more than him about anything going on even tangentially relevant to Cardassian politics was particularly galling.

It wouldn’t do to say that, however, so instead Garak sat next to him on the bed and placed a soothing hand on his back. “What is this about, my love?”

Julian raised his head and hesitated, no doubt debating how much his precious medical ethics would allow him to say. “We have a problem,” he said at last. “The baby’s father is human, and now Marratt knows. Hestra Marratt thinks she can keep it quiet, but I’m not so sure. From what Krim said, it sounds like he’s planning to use it to his advantage in some way, and I don’t think that involves brushing it under the rug. So I want an answer from you: what did you tell him and how did you arrive at your _supposition_?”

The wrath had abated, but all was not forgiven yet. Garak decided that the truth, more-or-less unvarnished, would serve him better than any alternatives. “It was nothing more than a fluke. I was waiting for you outside the hospital, and I happened to see her leaving. She was wearing a hood, but the wind blew it aside and I caught sight of her face before she could put it right. Marratt would surely have found a private physician for his darling eldest daughter rather than allow her to set foot in a public hospital, and her attempt to conceal her face suggested a clandestine motive. An uncertainty over paternity seemed the most likely explanation. The next time I had a reason to request Marratt’s cooperation in a matter of minimal importance, I passed this deduction along. That is the extent of it. It did not occur to me that you might be involved. I would have dismissed it out of hand.”

“Why?”

“Even assuming that she does not share her father’s prejudices - and admittedly that does seem to be the case, though I had no way of knowing that at the time - I would hardly expect her to hand any potentially damaging information to the husband of one of her father’s political adversaries.”

“And if I go through her files, I’m not going to find any evidence of a data breach?”

“If _I_ hacked your files, you certainly wouldn’t. So you will just have to take my word for it,” said Garak. “Now if you don’t mind answering one of my questions: how do _you_ know that Marratt knows?”

“Krim paid me a visit today.”

Garak froze. “What happened?”

“He tried to intimidate me into giving him classified medical information,” said Julian. “It didn’t work.”

“I see. Did this intimidation attempt cause you any injury?” Garak kept his tone so even he might have been asking about the weather, but blood was pounding in his ears while his mind supplied him with a list of all the most painful ways Krim and Marratt could be disposed of.

“No. Krim’s not as fast as I am, and I doubt he was expecting me to be able to defend myself,” said Julian, with an almost clinical detachment. “He wasn’t injured either, for the record, and I don’t want you doing anything to change that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He could make it look like an accident. Many of their colleagues would suspect him, of course, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything, and he doubted they’d try. Marratt wasn’t exactly well-loved, and no one had anything but disdain for Krim.

“I’m serious, Elim. You can’t create a new government by falling back on the methods that made the old one fall apart,” said Julian. “And you can ask Krim whether or not I need you to defend my honor.”

“I would not allow you to stay here if I didn’t think you could take care of yourself.” Julian clearly wanted to dispute Garak’s ability to prevent him from staying on Cardassia, but Garak continued before he had the chance. “What makes you think that Marratt isn’t going to conceal his daughter’s infidelity?”

Julian recited his conversation with Krim with his exact recall. “Just as he was leaving, he said, ‘ _You march around our planet acting like you’re so much better than we are. Well, none of you are going to be here for much longer, not after this comes out._ ’ It could be bluster, but I doubt it. I doubt he meant for it slip out, either.”

“Marratt won’t be pleased with him for this little stunt, I’m sure.”

“It’s an old strategy in patriarchal societies to stoke fear and resentment against the ‘Other.’ Claim they’re coming after your women. Say they’re here to corrupt your culture and destroy the purity of your race.”

“It sustained our empire for centuries,” said Garak, dryly, “so you can’t say it isn’t effective.”

“Do you know how many people die in that hospital every day because we don’t have enough doctors or nurses or even hyposprays to save them? We couldn’t keep our equipment sterilized for a week if we lost Federation aid. Marratt isn’t just hateful, he’s a damn fool.”

“Yes, I confess that I can’t see the strategy behind many of his recent actions. That worries me.”

Julian gave him a sharp look. “What other recent actions?”

“Were you aware that your Dr. Zulak is Marratt’s cousin by marriage?”

“Not _my_ Dr. Zulak,” said Julian even more sharply. “Wait, you’re not saying—”

“I hate to disappoint you, but her persistence may not have been motivated entirely by your considerable charms.”

“You think Marratt was trying to set me up?” Julian’s brow furrowed. “ _Why_? Does he just want to create a scandal to discredit you?”

“That’s the most obvious explanation.”

“Just how fickle does he think I am? Does he really think I’d resign my commission and leave the Federation so that I could come and live with you in a politically unstable disaster zone, marry you, adopt a child with you, and then ruin it all by sleeping with the first attractive person who throws themselves at me? He doesn’t actually believe all that bollocks he spouts about Federaji promiscuity, does he?”

“So it would seem,” said Garak, not remotely convinced himself. “Have I ever told you how radiant you look when you’re brimming with righteous indignation?”

“It doesn’t make much sense. Especially since I told her - repeatedly - that I wasn’t interested. You’d think he’d move on to his next plot.” His frowned deepened. “Or if he was really determined to entrap me, why not try something more aggressive? A high enough dose of Regalian liquid crystal and I’d probably sleep with a gormagander.”

“I doubt Marratt would consider it worthwhile to expend the necessary time and resources to acquire such expensive and highly regulated substances. Then there’s the risk of post-coital cardiac arrest, which I’ve heard is especially high in humans.”

“Just something you overheard hemming a Risian bridal gown?”

“Actually it was a surgical gown. Doctors do love to chat.”

Julian’s grin faded and his brow creased. “I don’t _think_ I did anything to encourage her advances. I thought I’d picked up on most of the cultural cues by _now_ …”

“You didn’t,” said Garak. “Your Kardasi is perfectly adequate to differentiate between _certef’zIra_ and _arget’Chaj_. Anyone could plainly see that your ‘no’ meant ‘no,’ not ‘try harder.’”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”

“Minister Claran caught an incident on the hospital’s security system. One which you didn’t see fit to report.”

Julian let out a short, hollow laugh. “I didn’t see the point. It was nothing I couldn’t handle myself.”

“Dr. Zulak appeared to be doing most of the handling,” said Garak. Julian bristled. “But you acquitted yourself well. I found it quite gratifying to witness.”

“Don’t tell me you actually enjoy watching me get groped—”

“Not remotely,” said Garak. “You misunderstand me, my dear.”

Julian crossed his arms. “You just enjoy watching me reject beautiful women.”

“I would hardly describe her as beautiful.”

“Then maybe I should make you an appointment with the optometrist.”

“That will not be necessary. I admit that I did appreciate your tactic.”

“My tactic?” said Julian, raising his eyebrows. “What tactic? Telling her that I’m married?”

“You specifically described yourself as ‘happily married,’” said Garak. Then, more quietly: “The idea still seems a little unfathomable.”

Julian leaned against him, and planted a light kiss on his aural ridge. “I hope you don’t think I was _faking_ all that enthusiasm last night.”

“I don’t think that highly of your acting skills, my dear,” said Garak. “But making someone orgasm and making someone happy are not the same thing.”

As a young man, Garak had enjoyed plenty of orgasms with people who would have had no qualms about killing him. He’d regarded it as a kind of sport. When emotional connection was forbidden, what was left but hollow thrill-seeking? Julian’s smile alone could suffuse him with more joy than any of those encounters had.

“I enjoyed your company before there were any orgasms involved, you know. Of _course_ being with you makes me happy.” Julian kissed his way down the ridge on Garak’s jaw, and added, “Also annoyed, frustrated, and frequently confused. You drive me completely crazy, sometimes. But I would rather be driven crazy by you than stay sane with anyone else. I _love_ you. Passionately. I wish you would just believe me when I say it.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Julian. But I fear that it’s not something I will ever understand.”

Julian took his hand and squeezed it. “We’ll just have to work on that, then. Even if it takes us a few decades.”

“Ever the hopeless optimist. I can see that all my instructions over the years have been wasted on you.”

“Don't give up on me now, Elim.” That smile really was going to be the death of him. Well, at least he would die _happy_. “Patience has its rewards.”

“Oh, my dear Doctor - if only you meant it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to move (at least temporarily) to a two-week update schedule, at least until I'm satisfied that I've worked out all the plot details in the later chapters. So the next update should be 9/25. 
> 
> Next time: Amsha meets some of Julian's neighbors.


	19. Chapter 15: Listen to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And you know what else? I don’t think this is about Garak at all. This is about_ me _."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to everyone who commented on the last chapter! <3<3<3

The garden contained no plants Amsha recognized. Had any of them sprouted in her own garden, she would have judged them as hopelessly unhealthy. Galen regarded them all with great enthusiasm, and knew all their names. 

“This is spirapin.” He plucked a scraggly white blossom, carefully avoiding the spiky yellow leaves. “You can eat it but it doesn’t taste very good.” 

“It’s medicine,” said a new voice. “It’s not supposed to taste good, it’s just supposed to help you breathe.” 

Galen dropped his flower with a small squeak, and hid behind Amsha’s legs. 

The interloper was a young man of perhaps twenty. Like most Cardassian men Amsha had seen, he wore his black hair slicked back, though the ends brushing against his shoulders were lank and untidy. A long scar from what must have been a deep wound ran through the ridges around his left eye and across his nose. As he limped towards them, Amsha realized that he had a prosthetic metal leg, like something out of a holofilm set in a bygone era. He held a round, battered silver container under one arm. 

“You make it into a tea. I told Dr. Bashir about it once when he was seeing to my leg. He’d never heard of it before but he said that traditional folk remedies can be very affective and often form the basis for modern medical treatments. You’re Dr. Bashir’s mother, aren’t you? Willa Jabez said that his mother was staying here. My adik says that there have never been any aliens in the neighborhood before, and she was born here.” 

“Yes, I’m his mother,” said Amsha, when he finally paused for breath. “I’ll be here for a few weeks. My name is Amsha Bashir.” 

“Brix Oksot,” said the young man. “Do humans take their mothers’ family names? We usually take our fathers’. Only I have my adik’s name on account of her being Mr. Hosmer’s housekeeper, while my yadik was only a laborer. Is Mr. Garak in? I have something for him.” He looked around, and then surreptitiously opened his tin, revealing half a dozen speckled olive green eggs. “We’ve still got a few regova hens left. Been keeping them in the cellar so no one steals them.” 

“He’s inside. I can bring them in to him, if you like?” Amsha found it difficult to avoid staring at Oksot’s scar while he rambled. The ubiquitous presence of dermal regenerators meant that no one on Earth _had_ visible scars (no one Amsha had ever known, anyway). 

Galen cautiously peeked his head out from behind Amsha’s leg.

“That’s fine. Hello, Galen,” said Oksot, nodding down at him. “He’s a timid little thing, isn’t he? When I heard they’d taken in a Romulan I didn’t believe it at first. You can’t believe half of what you hear about Mr. Garak and my adik says you can’t believe half of what he says neither. She knew him when they were kids. I don’t think she’s ever liked him much. She says he always put on airs and pretended he was cleverer than everyone else, and then got everyone else into trouble, but he’s always been nice enough to me. Gave me a book by an ancient Terran author called Fleming for the eggs. No one has any books around here, let alone off-world ones. But she’s a bit old-fashioned, my adik. Thinks no one from the serving class belongs in government. She didn’t even like me joining the military. She may have had a point there. Can you believe Klingons still fight with bladed weapons? They’re barbaric. Dr. Bashir put me on the waiting list for a biosynthetic leg, but not even the ancestors know how long that will take. Give him my regards, will you? Him and Mr. Garak. And tell them I’d like the container back.” 

“Of course,” said Amsha. “Thank you for the eggs.” 

Oksot handed her the tin with a polite bow. Then he departed nearly as quickly as he spoke, in spite of the metal leg, leaving Amsha slightly bemused in his wake. Cardassia was never _quite_ what she expected. 

“May I see?” asked Galen.

Amsha knelt down and opened the tin so that he could peer inside. “Just be careful,” she said, though in truth the eggs might have been made of rubber for all she knew. Galen picked one up and examined it, inspecting the pattern of speckles with his fingers, then put it back with great care. 

At the sound of the front door sliding open and shut, Galen’s head snapped around. 

“What have you got there?” asked Julian, walking towards them with a warm smile. Whatever strain had been weighing him down earlier seemed to have lifted. 

“It’s a secret,” said Galen. 

“Your neighbor - uh, Brix Oksot - brought them over. They’re some sort of eggs.” 

“Ah, regova eggs, I expect.” He took the tin in hand, gave the eggs a cursory glance and then closed it up. “Best keep these hidden.” He winked at Galen. “I wonder—”

“Doctor! Dr. Bashir!” The sound of running footfalls heralded the arrival of yet another interloper. “Dr. Bashir, it’s—it’s—” The girl stopped, gasping for breath. Now that she’d stopped moving Amsha recognized her as the same girl who had come to fetch Julian the day she’d arrived on Cardassia.

“Your grandfather?” guessed Julian. “Take a moment to breathe, Willa, and _then_ tell me what happened.” 

Willa took a few deep breaths. “We were going into the Roylott cellar - like we’ve done a hundred times - but one of the walls collapsed! And I got him away from it but his arm’s mangled and he’s passed out and I don’t know what to do!” 

“Willa, I’m going to go and get my medkit. Just stay with my mother for a moment, alright? She’ll look after you.” 

Willa nodded, lip trembling. Julian scooped up Galen in the arm that wasn’t still holding the prized regova eggs and made for the house at a brisk pace. As soon as the door closed behind him, Willa sank to the ground in a squatting position, pressing her forehead to her knees and shaking violently. 

Amsha sat down next to her, uncertain what consolation to offer. 

“He’s going to die this time,” said Willa flatly. “What am I going to do if he dies?” 

The tragic certainty in her tone sent a shiver down Amsha’s spine. “You don’t know that. Julian will do everything he can to save him. 

The girl sniffed, and wiped her nose on her trousers. “Ya’yad would be dead already if it weren’t for him.” 

“He’s a very good doctor,” said Amsha, with all the confidence of a mother. 

“They always say that aliens aren’t as good as Cardassians at science and medicine and the like, but I don’t think it’s true.” 

Amsha wasn’t sure how to respond to _that_. 

Julian rushed back out of the house, medkit in hand, and Willa leapt to her feet. “I might need some assistance,” said Julian. 

“Of course,” said Amsha. “But wouldn’t Garak be—?” 

“Ah, Jabez doesn’t like Garak much.” 

Willa ran on ahead of them, pausing occasionally to check their progress. Julian walked so quickly that Amsha struggled to keep up with his long legs. They were headed in the opposite direction from the skimmer stop, to a part of the neighborhood Amsha hadn’t seen before, though it looked more or less the same. Nevertheless, every step into the unknown heightened Amsha’s senses, amplifying every sound in the stillness. The property they eventually stopped at was a little larger than Garak’s. The house that once stood there must have been of remarkable size, given what was left of its foundations and the large piles of stone that nearly blocked the view of the cottage behind it. 

“Over here,” shouted Willa, who had disappeared into the rubble. 

“Follow my footsteps exactly,” cautioned Julian, as they picked their way through the debris. “Or you’ll fall into the cellar.” 

Amsha stumbled over a broken lamp but caught herself before she fell. She heard a moan of pain a few seconds before they turned a corner and found a gaunt old man lying on the remnants of a scorched rug, long white hair splayed out around his head like a halo. Some of it was soaked with blood oozing from a wound on his temple. 

As Julian knelt down beside him, medkit at the ready, Amsha realized that she had never watched her son _work_ before. 

“Mr. Jabez, can you understand me?” he asked, voice firm and calm. 

Jabez muttered something unintelligible. 

Julian began taking readings on his tricorder. “Depressed skull fracture and subdermal hematoma, along with a linear transverse fracture of the distal radius,” he said, speaking more to himself than to them. “Willa, I’m going to make sure he’s stable enough for emergency transport, then send him to Central Hospital. This is more than I can treat with the equipment I have on hand.” 

Willa swallowed and nodded. Jabez moaned again and his head lolled to one side. Julian reached down to steady him, but as soon as Julian’s hand made contact with the uninjured side of his head, his eyes snapped open.

“Get your _vrerUj sark_ hands off me!” he cried. His uninjured arm flailed out in Julian’s direction, too feeble to land a blow. 

“Willa, Mother, I need you both to help keep him still. One of you on each side. Willa, be careful of his forearm - it’s broken.” 

They both did as they were told. Julian moved to crouch down by Jabez’s head, where he attached a small medical device Amsha didn’t know the name of. 

“Get off,” slurred Jabez. Amsha could feel him struggling weakly against her restraining hands. “You _na’ritzU_ _misoji_ don’t belong here. You—” His eyes rolled up to focus on Julian, inasmuch as he was capable of focusing on anything in this state. “You—you _sark xaUkhen—_ in our homes, _sark scub’lizor_. Your _b’dUl_ everywhere.”

Julian tapped the communicator attached to his medkit. “Bashir to Central Hospital. I have a patient and his granddaughter for emergency transport.” He placed a small bronze emblem on the man’s chest as he spoke, and handed a second one to Willa. “Lock onto patient indicator badges at my coordinates.” 

_“Affirmative._ ”

“Thank you,” said Willa, just before she and her grandfather dematerialized. 

Julian gave a quick assessment of the situation to the awaiting hospital staff. When he disengaged the communicator, Amsha asked, “Will he live?” 

“Probably,” Julian responded, as he repacked his medkit. “The prognosis is relatively good, but given his age and state of health, there could be complications.” 

They picked their way through the wreckage and back to the road.

“My UT didn’t catch much of what he said to you,” said Amsha. 

“Most Kardasi slurs and expletives lose something in translation anyway.” 

“What does _sark_ mean? I heard that one a few times.” 

“Alien,” said Julian. “More or less. Though it wouldn’t be my preferred term for self-description.” 

“How can he be so rude to you when you’re trying to save his life? When you’ve helped him in the past?” 

Julian shrugged it off. “People in pain often lash out. He wasn’t exactly lucid.” 

“And he’s never said anything like that to you when he was?” 

“Believe me, I’ve heard worse.”

They walked in silence, while Amsha mulled over the implications of this, and of all she had seen and heard. Once they had crossed the path through the rubble in front of Julian’s and Garak’s cottage, Amsha said, quiet and earnest, “You could do so much better than this, Julian. You should be working somewhere where people actually appreciate you.” 

Julian stopped walking abruptly. “I’m not going to give up on a whole planet because a delirious old man said a few nasty things to me!” 

“It’s hardly a matter of one delirious old man.”

“No, it’s not,” agreed Julian. “And I’m not denying that it does weigh on me, sometimes.”

“I’m worried about you, Jules. You keep finding ways to limit yourself. Think of how much more successful you could be in your career if you didn’t insist on working in all these faraway places where no one can appreciate your gifts.” 

“No one in the Federation wants to see an augment succeed,” said Julian sharply. “We’re not exactly free of prejudices either.”

“You shouldn’t call yourself that.” 

Julian laughed, the sound just this side of hysterical. “That’s what I _am_. That’s what you made me. It’s not a always a gift, you know, having an intellect that towers over everyone around you. My God, during my first year on DS9 I think Garak was the only one who genuinely liked me. He was certainly the only one willing to listen to me for any length of time. But you don’t like him any more than you like Cardassia, do you?” 

“You come from such fundamentally different cultures.” 

“Plenty of people are in cross-cultural relationships. A few centuries ago your relationship with father would have been considered cross-cultural. It’s all just a matter of perspective.” 

“It’s not just a matter of culture. His values, his opinions, his morals, his ideals… You have so little in common with him, Jules. I just don’t see how you can be happy.” 

“It’s _Julian_. I’m sure _Jules_ would have stayed on Earth and married someone nice, safe, and insipid.” 

“I just think that if he truly cares for you he wouldn’t insist on staying here.”

“I’m here because I want to be. I know you’ve seen some of Cardassia’s ugliness, and I know that must be shocking for you - there’s so little ugliness of any kind on Earth. But that’s not the totality of _my_ experience of Cardassia, only a fraction of it. And Cardassia is _changing_. I want to be part of that change, in my own way. I _like_ being part of that change. _Garak_ is part of that change.” 

“You can’t tell me that he wants to see all the same changes you do.” 

“No, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of disagreements on that subject.”

“That doesn’t strike you as a bad sign?” 

“We’ve been disagreeing with each other for nearly eight years now, and it seems to suit us just fine. Look, I’m not claiming everything is perfect between us. What relationship is perfect? Sometimes it’s even difficult. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. It’s worth everything to me. I wish you could see that.” 

“Is it true that he tried to kill you?” 

“What!? No! Who told you that?” 

“He did. He said he tried to blow up a planet you were on.” 

“Oh,” said Julian. “It was… a little more complicated than that. I wasn’t who he was aiming for. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that: the entire incident is classified.”

“But a man capable of doing such things—”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what _either_ of us is capable of!” He seemed to realize he was on the verge of shouting, and lowered his voice. “You haven’t the faintest idea what either of us has been through. And you know what else? I don’t think this is about Garak at all. This is about _me_. This is about me living the life I want instead of the life you want _for_ me! I left Earth for Deep Space 9 eight years ago. 2795 days. 67080 hours. During that time, you have spent 230 hours in my company, if I estimate it _generously_. That is 0.34%. You have no idea who I am, and you still presume to tell me that I’m making the wrong decisions! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure Garak has found something interesting to do with the regova eggs by now, so I’m going to go and have dinner with my family. Join us, or don’t, it’s all the same to me.” 

With that, he spun on his heel and stalked off towards the house. Amsha took a moment longer to collect herself, before following him inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cardassian vocabulary:  
>  - _sark_ (alien) and _vrerUj_ (filthy, unclean) are from [Vyc and tinsnip's English-Kardasi Dictionary](https://cardassianlanguage.tumblr.com/post/165952398108/english-kardasi-dictionary-version-061). The rest of Jabez’s insults are mine.  
>  - _na’ritzU_ : soft, lacking scales or ridges (covered in skin)  
>  - _misoji_ : vulgar slang for an enemy of the state (as opposed to all the formal and legal terms for enemies of the state)  
>  - _xaUkhen_ : someone who encourages/induces disloyalty to the state in others  
>  - _scub’lizor_ : someone who defiles or desecrates state property  
>  - _b’dUl_ : stench (typically used in reference to excrement or aliens)  
> 
> 
> Next time: Preparations are made for the reception on board the _Enterprise_.


	20. Chapter 16: The Just Right Clothes You’re Wearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Oh, are you planning on ravishing me while we’re on the Enterprise? I suppose that’s one way to demonstrate peaceful relations between our peoples.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I forgot to add any vocabulary notes/credits on the last chapter, so I've gone back and added them now (just in case you're curious about the definitions for Jabez's string of Kardasi insults). 
> 
> And thank you, as always, to everyone who commented!

“Do we have to get up?” mumbled Julian, his warm breath tickling the back of Garak’s neck.

“Absolutely not,” lied Garak, quietly reveling in the way Julian’s arms tightened around him in response. “You can send a missive to Dr. Claran and my secretary and whomever else you deem relevant and inform them that we are both — what is that charming expression? — under the umbrella.”

“Under the weather,” corrected Julian. “And why do _I_ have to be the one to call them?”

“Verisimilitude, my dear. No one will believe _me_ if I call in sick.”

“That’s true,” Julian conceded. “I had to forcibly quarantine you the last time.”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” said Garak. Really, he’d been so weak and delirious that all Julian had to do to ‘forcibly quarantine’ him had been to tuck him back into bed with old-fashioned hospital corners.

He rolled over, and Julian immediately wriggled into his embrace, sighing against Garak’s nightshirt. “So, I call in sick for both of us, and then what?”

“I thought your objective was to remain in bed?”

“For a few more hours at least. But we may get hungry eventually.” He yawned. “Perhaps I’ll make another attempt at turning kava flour into scones.”

“Will we be making a miraculous recovery in time for the reception on the _Enterprise_ tonight?”

There had been some talk of postponing it, after the bombing. But establishing more solid diplomatic relations with the Federation was too vital, and such seemingly frivolous events were a necessary part of that process. Besides, varied cuisine was now an unfathomable luxury on Cardassia, and even replicated Federation _hors d'oeuvres_ marked a welcome change. (How low they had all sunk!)

“That’s a good question.” Julian’s voice took a noticeably downcast turn.

“I would think that you would be looking forward to returning to the bosom of Starfleet for an evening. And I believe you have some friends and acquaintances serving on-board that illustrious ship. Surely you don’t want to disappoint them with your absence?”

“I haven’t seen any of them in years. Not since—before the war.”

“Before your augmentations became common knowledge.”

Julian rolled onto his back and sighed. “I feel like I’m going to be on display tonight for all the wrong reasons. Not human enough for Starfleet and too human for Cardassia.”

A rapid series of sharp raps at their door effectively cut off any further rumination of Julian’s unfortunate (but not entirely unwarranted) insecurities.

“Come in,” said Julian, around another yawn.

The door slid open. Galen bounded in, and Garak wasn’t sure if he was wearing his new _mijast_ or if the _mijast_ was wearing him.

“Yadik! Yadik! I got stuck.”

“I can see that,” said Garak. “Why don’t you show me how you got stuck, and I’ll show you how to avoid it in future.”

“And here I thought that impenetrability was the goal of Cardassian fashion,” said Julian.

“Not for the _wearer_.”

Galen went through the sequence of fastenings; it was easy enough to pinpoint where he had gone astray, and guide him towards the correct order and method.

“You look very handsome,” said Julian, who had propped himself up on one elbow to observe the proceedings.

Galen beamed at them and spun around a few times, clapping his hands for good measure (a decidedly un-Cardassian impulse).

“Now, do you think you will be able to remove it yourself, or would you like my assistance?” asked Garak.

Galen’s face fell. “But I don’t want to take it off. I want to wear it to school.”

“That would be inadvisable,” said Garak. “Do you remember what I told you about this garment?”

“It’s called a _mijast_ , and we started wearing it at the time of the, uh, the First Union, and now we only wear it for special occasions. But…” Galen trailed off, still unconvinced, lips still curled in a frown.

“You wouldn’t want to get it dirty before the reception tonight, would you?” said Garak.

Galen shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“I hope it can withstand _some_ wear and tear,” put in Julian. “The Enterprise childcare center will probably have him playing with fingerpaints or clay or something of the sort.”

“What are fingerpaints?” asked Galen.

“Oh, well, you put them on your fingers and use them to paint pictures.”

 _How dreadful_. Even Galen looked torn between disgust and intrigue at the concept.

“It is made of durable materials,” said Garak. “If they don’t have the good sense to have some aprons replicated for any of the messier activities planned, then you would do well to request one, my dear.” The mottled pattern of black, gold, and red on the sleeves and down the front panel was designed to camouflage stains, but he doubted it would stand up to anything as horrid as _fingerpaints_.

“Okay,” said Galen. “Does that mean that I can wear my _mijast_ to school if I wear an apron over it?”

“He’s got you there,” said Julian, who was no help at all sometimes.

“It’s designed with Federation starship temperatures in mind. It will be much warmer at school. You’ll be more comfortable in something lighter. And then in just a few hours you’ll be able to wear your _mijast_.”

“Okay,” said Galen reluctantly.

“Do you want my help?”

“Uh-uh. I know how to do it now.” This proclamation seemed to bolster his spirits, and the spring returned to his step as he scampered back to his own room.

“Take care where you aim that smile, my love,” said Garak, and Julian’s smile widened. “I fail to see what you find so amusing about a minor fashion crisis.”

“You, Elim. I was just wondering how many other former intelligence operatives are so adept at handling the fashion crises of small children.”

“Oh, all of them. Knowing how to dress oneself and others is half the job.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You never learn, do you?”

“Perhaps not.” A shadow passed over Julian’s face. “Actually, I was just thinking about _learning_. And how often my parents - especially after the genetic enhancements - told me I was doing things wrong, without ever explaining why or how to do things properly. They just expected me to _know_ better already, and acted as though I was feigning ignorance to spite them.”

Tain’s pedagogical philosophy had not included explaining either what mistakes had been made or how to correct them, but he was always quick to mete out punishments.

“Sometimes,” continued Julian, “nothing scares me more than the idea that Galen might grow up to resent us the way I resent them.”

“That would suggest a great failure on our part,” said Garak, carefully. “Something we must guard ourselves against.”

“I did mean it you know. You handled that very well. Though I will have to get used to this more _straight-forward_ side of you.”

“Interpreting the subtle nuances of what is implied rather than said is a skill like any other. It takes time and practice to develop it. One must be more straight-forward in the early years.”

“A little straight-forwardness suits you. As much as I enjoy you being all enigmatic and mysterious.”

“Everything in its proper context.”

“And I’m afraid _our_ proper context does not involve spending the day in bed.”

* * *

Julian did not even bother pretending that he might join Amsha for lunch in the hospital cafeteria. All that honesty yesterday had brought them right back to square one, and Amsha wasn’t sure what to do to rectify the situation. With all the fights they’d had over the years, one would think she would be used to this. Except that while Julian might aim at both of them, it was Richard who fired back, not _her_. She stepped between them, played the peacemaker, rarely expressing her own opinions outright. Amsha wondered if an apology would soothe him, or merely aggravate him further. She was used to apologizing—to Richard’s clients and bosses, to Julian’s teachers—but rarely on her own behalf.

The lab was empty when she came in, so she donned a lab coat and waited, uncertain if she was authorized to begin work without her supervisor present. Dozia eventually staggered in ten minutes later, and nodded at Amsha in passing before disappearing into a storage room, and re-emerging with a hypospray in hand. Her hands shook as she raised it to her neck.

“It’s nothing elicit,” said Dozia. “It merely lessens the aftereffects of overindulgence. I am a doctor, you know. Do you plan on reporting me?”

“No,” said Amsha.

“Then stop staring and get to work.”

Dozia finally joined her a few minutes later, presumably when the hypospray began to take effect. “Not very chipper this morning, are you? I trust you didn’t develop a sudden appreciation for kanar after you left the _Vole_ last night.”

“No, nothing like that.” Amsha hesitated. She doubted that confiding in Dozia was a good idea. But who else did she have to talk to? “I had a fight with my son.”

“I take it that he refuses to take any of your sound advice?”

“Something like that.” Amsha frowned down at the vials she was adding to the centrifuge, as if they might hold the answer to her quandary. “I’m starting to wonder if it is sound advice after all.”

She didn’t like Cardassia much. It felt dangerous and hostile and grim. She couldn’t imagine wanting to live here when there were other options available. But then, she hadn’t understood why he would choose an assignment on a space station affiliated with a planet known mainly for its history of devastation, whose future seemed to promise nothing but chaos. Yet Julian maintained that he’d been happy there. (Many years ago, when the Bashir family moved to Invernia II, Amsha had only lasted through one ion storm before she insisted that they return to Earth.)

“When I gave birth to my eldest child,” said Dozia, “I was profoundly disappointed that the experience did not confer on me the inundation of wisdom I’d been expecting. I assumed something of the sort must happen, because we are always told that we must respect our parents judgment in all things.”

“It was a popular idea in many ancient Earth religions and philosophies.” The centrifuge finished its cycle, and she began removing the vials. “Perhaps I should apologize.”

“Would you mean it?” asked Dozia.

“I don’t know.”

Julian’s voice still rang in her ears: _You haven’t the faintest idea what either of us is capable of!_

Her son was a war veteran, and a decorated one at that. Starfleet service records were to some extent public, and she had always kept an eye on Julian’s, taking note of every award, every commendation, every medal for valor. Still, she never really thought of him as a soldier. Pride over his accomplishments, worry for his safety, and bitterness over his distance had eschewed any real consideration of his experiences. She wondered if he had ever killed anyone. Perhaps it was naive to assume that being a healer first would save him from that in the heat of battle.

Whatever he might have done, she felt sure that any comparison to Garak’s past was an exercise in false equivalency. That Julian loved him and forgave him was not enough to assuage her concerns, for her grandson as well as for her son. (Galen clearly adored both of them, which she supposed was one point in Garak’s favor.)

But no argument, however persuasive, was likely to sway him, especially coming from her.

* * *

“You’ve really outdone yourself with the embroidery, Elim. It’s exquisite.” Julian would be the first person to tell you that he had no eye for fashion. But he had learned enough about tailoring over the years to know which details and flourishes took the most time and artistry to produce. He’d also spent enough time watching Miles’ triumphs and blunders when it came to husbanding to know that noticing and appreciating when one’s partner put in extra effort on one’s behalf went a long way towards maintaining marital harmony. (And _failing_ to notice was an invitation to marital discord.)

Additionally, Garak was far more susceptible to compliments than he pretended. Out of the corner of his eye, Julian caught the slight flaring of his ridges and the preening little smile. “Thank you, my dear.”

Garak fussed over a few finishing touches and then turned Julian to face the mirror. The _mijast_ truly was stunning: a subtle ivory with rich gold trim that caught the light even in their dimly lit bedroom, hints of red woven through the embroidered embellishments. It coordinated well with the dark red and gold ensemble Garak was wearing, probably by design.

“Though I don’t know about this neckline,” added Julian, examining himself with the pretense of a critical eye.

“Nonsense. You look ravishing.” Garak circled behind him and dropped his hands on Julian’s shoulders, the same way he had in their first meeting. Then, the touch had sent a jolt of electricity through him, stirring up a hornets’ nest of emotions: fear, excitement, an attraction he wasn’t quite willing to admit to himself. Now, it infused him with a different kind of heat, gentle and comforting, though not lacking in sparks.

“Oh, are you planning on ravishing me while we’re on the _Enterprise_? I suppose that’s one way to demonstrate peaceful relations between our peoples.”

“You consider our relations _peaceful_?” Garak raised a hand to his chest in a gesture of theatrical affront. “You _wound_ me.”

“Mutually satisfying relations, then. Vigorous, stimulating cultural exchange. Really spectacular, mind-blowing diplomacy.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for any diplomacy before the reception. I’d prefer not to get beamed up mid-negotiation.”

“This is what I get for wearing something you approve of. When I wear something you hate you’re much more eager to remove it.”

“I’ve seen what passes for interior decorating on Federation starships. If I’m going to suffer through Starfleet’s attempts at hospitality, I’m going to need something aesthetically pleasing to look at.”

“That’s my job for the evening, is it? Just stand around looking pretty?”

That obviously wasn’t the case. The Starfleet officers would see his new outfit as nothing more than basic Federation etiquette; many cultures considered it polite and respectful for their guests to don their traditional garb. Learning when it was appropriate to engage in local custom was part of basic training in Starfleet. But from a Cardassian point of view, a non-Cardassian wearing a traditional Cardassian _mijast_ was shocking. Showing up drenched in sex pheromones and covered in love bites would have been less provocative. Garak was using Julian and his carefully tailored suit to make an even more carefully tailored political statement for the benefit of his colleagues. Cardassian or not, Julian was part of Cardassia now, standing with them even before the Federation, whether the Cardassian government wanted him as their representative or not.

“Now, now, you mustn’t underestimate your duties at this event. Other members of the council will be bringing their husbands and wives as well, and it is your solemn responsibility to be prettier than all of them.”

Julian held up three fingers in what Garak assumed was an imitation of some ancient Terran salute. “This I vow with my life's blood: for my son, for all our sons.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult. Your only real competition is from Minister Burba’s wife.”

“Her wife? I didn’t know she was married.”

“It’s quite a recent development. The woman is a farmer, and not even a landowner at that. Scandalous elopements are all the rage these days. Just imagine, a ministry scientist marrying an uneducated field hand. Such things aren’t done.”

“So, is eloping with an alien better or worse?”

“Oh, much worse.”

“Then I shall endeavor to be prettier and more scandalous than Minister Burba’s wife.”

“See that you do.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be outdone.” Julian ran his fingers over his exposed neck and collarbones. There was nothing for it: he was going to need the dermal regenerator. “Elim, _is_ there anything you need from me tonight? Anyone I should talk to? Anyone I should avoid? Anything I should say, or not say?”

“I’m afraid those who are not impressed by your accomplishments are not likely to be won over by your personality. Tonight, I only need you to be your very enchanting self, my dear Doctor.”

Judging by the glint in Garak’s eye, he could look forward to a good ravishing later whether he played his part well or not.

* * *

Amsha heard Garak leave to go and help Galen dress, and only then did she cautiously approach his and Julian’s room, stopping in the open doorway. Julian stood in front of a mirror, running a dermal regenerator over a bruise on his exposed collarbone.

“You look very nice,” said Amsha.

“Thank you,” said Julian, as stiff and formal as his new outfit. “It’s one of Garak’s designs.”

“He’s very talented,” said Amsha.

“He was a very good tailor.”

Amsha had not ventured into this room before. It was about as small as Galen’s room, with the same color scheme and threadbare geometric carpets found in the rest of the house. Most of the space was taken up by furniture: a bed, a dresser, a shelf filled with unidentifiable devices and data rods. A few bolts of fabric lay stacked in one corner. Then something vaguely familiar and distinctly out of place on the shelf caught her eye: a teddy bear, not unlike Galen’s, but old and careworn and sporting a tiny black tuxedo.

“I didn’t know you still had that,” she said, approaching the shelf so she could examine the long-forgotten toy. What had Julian called it? Kookaburra?

“Be careful with him,” said Julian. The hum of the regenerator ceased and he turned to face her. “He’s a bit fragile.”

Some of the stuffing was poking out through sloppy black stitches on the bear’s leg. “I can see that. Perhaps Garak could repair him.”

“He _has_ offered. I wouldn’t let him fix any of my stitching, so he made him the tux instead.”

“Very sweet.”

“It helps keep him from falling apart.”

This toy seemed to be the only memento he had brought with him from Earth. When Amsha turned it over, Julian sidled closer, hovering nearby as if he feared she might harm the thing.

“I haven’t seen this in years. You used to carry it around everywhere when you were little.”

“You wanted me to recycle him.”

She remembered, now that he’d mentioned it. He’d been around 13, too old to have any interest in stuffed animals. They’d been sorting through his closet to determine which clothes he’d outgrown, and which were simply in no condition to be worn again. Or rather, Amsha had been sorting, and Julian had been lying on his bed with his nose in a PADD, answering Amsha’s inquiries with little interest. The bear was tucked away in a corner, battered and dirty. But when she’d suggested adding it into the replicator reclamation pile, he had suddenly decided that he could handle the chore of cleaning out his own closet without her assistance.

“I didn’t realize he was important to you.”

Julian sighed, and gave into his obvious desire to pluck the bear from her hands. “I didn’t want you to know. I thought you’d think there was something wrong with me if you knew I wanted to keep him. It’s a little embarrassing when you’re a teenager to still be so attached to a teddy bear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling sentimental about a childhood toy.”

“I know. I’m well over it, now. As you can see.” He put the toy back in its place, proudly displayed on the shelf.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel like there was something wrong with you for it.”

 _Small steps_ , she thought. _Start with the little things._

“Oh, that’s— I—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you.”

As she left the room, she overheard Julian say, presumably to the bear, “We’ll be back in a few hours, my friend. Keep the home fires burning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term _mijast_ has been borrowed from [AlphaCygni’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaCygni/pseuds/AlphaCygni) work (IIRC it originates from [Happy Itask'haran, Mister Garak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833034/chapters/34330502)). 
> 
> Next time: An Interlude


	21. Interlude: Take My Hand, Give Me Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Are you proposing, my dear Doctor?” He raised his eye ridges. “I thought human tradition required some sort of exchange of jewelry.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter has been finished for weeks and then yesterday I decided to revise it substantially. 
> 
> A few lines of dialogue are from one of the flashbacks in This Be The Verse.

One of the things Garak liked about Julian Bashir was that no matter how well Garak thought he knew the man, Julian still managed to surprise him. (Usually Garak made every effort to guard himself against surprises.) This had started almost as soon as they met. When he’d hacked into Starfleet’s personnel files, he’d marked the CMO down as a potential weak link that bore further investigation. (DS9 and Bajor must have been low on Starfleet’s list of priorities if they were willing to hand such a powerful position to such an inexperienced officer.) His _method_ of approach had been influenced by honest attraction. (If Dr. Bashir would not serve as a useful point of contact with Starfleet, he might at least serve as an entertaining diversion.) 

Then Julian had come into his shop the day after that business with Tahna Los, trying desperately to look _casual_ : casually wandering in, casually browsing the jackets on display, casually rifling through shirts. He was very bad at it. 

He kept stealing glances over at Garak whenever he thought Garak wasn’t paying attention, and doing it so obviously that Garak nearly suspected him of being a Starfleet Intelligence honey trap. Garak was always paying attention, however, whether Julian knew it or not (certainly not, in this case), and sometimes he would deliberately meet Julian’s eyes and smile at him, just to watch him blush and hurriedly go back to examining his wares. Garak finally snuck up behind him and startled him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with, Doctor?”

“Oh, well, uh, _actually_ ,” he stammered, “I was just thinking about what you said earlier.” 

_Such a pretty, foolish, young thing_ , Garak had thought, and wondered idly whether he tasted as good as he looked. “Oh? I say a great many things. It’s a Cardassian trait, I’m afraid. We do love conversation. You’ll have to remind me what it was I said.”

“Something about making new friends,” said Julian, meeting his eyes this time. “Finding enjoyable company.” 

Now, of course, Garak knew that Julian could have recited their entire conversation verbatim. He never would have guessed that this boy with his devastatingly open, expressive face, could ever have such levels of deception in him. Perhaps if he had, he would have realized just what sort of danger he was in before it was decidedly too late. It wasn’t the first time he had underestimated Julian, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

“And just what sort of companionship are you here to offer, my dear doctor?” he asked, his voice so thick with innuendo that Julian gulped and flushed again. He held his ground, though. 

“Lunch,” said Julian quickly. “I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me sometime? In the replimat?” 

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this invitation caught him off guard. ( _How delightful_.) Perhaps the starry-eyed creature would prove more interesting than Garak had suspected when he’d made his brazenly flirtatious introduction in the replimat.

Years later, Julian surprised him yet again with his insistence on coming to Cardassia. The war had transformed him to the point that he was hardly recognizable as the naive young man Garak had sought to enthrall. He grew more pessimistic. His exuberance in conversation dwindled. He took little pride in his accomplishments. His cure for Odo’s illness may well have prevented Cardassia’s complete annihilation, but Garak had never heard him utter a single word of self-congratulation. (Indeed, he was so uncharacteristically reticent on the subject that Garak suspected that whatever method he used to achieve it must have violated one of his many principles in some way.) 

When Garak came to say goodbye to him at the end of the war, Julian had given him a hard look and said, “You’re going to need doctors.” 

Garak froze, examining Julian with narrowed eyes. “Undoubtedly.” 

“You’re going to need more doctors than the Cardassian Union has left. You’re going to need to accept aid.” 

“True. I’m sure the Federation will be happy to step in. Out of _pure_ altruism and magnanimity, of course.” 

“I’m not saying there isn’t any strategy to it. We’ve done very well for ourselves turning enemies into allies. Just look at what happened with the Klingons, after Praxis.” 

Garak took a few steps closer to him. “You’re right of course, Doctor. In the decades to come, our civilizations may yet be friends. But this situation differs from the Klingons’ unhappy catastrophe in several respects. Cardassia isn’t the only world to suffer devastation. The Federation has also suffered in this war, and they will have to allocate their resources accordingly. They will have to temper their generosity. After all, Betazed is also in need of doctors.”

“Any Federation doctor can work on Betazed. Or Ricktor Prime or Tyra or any other Federation planet. But there’s a limited number of us who have any experience treating Cardassians.” 

“Doctor,” said Garak, and there was a warning note in his tone, and a hesitation. “ _Julian_ —” 

“For god’s sake, Elim! Do you want me to come to Cardassia with you or not?” 

“What I want is not, and never has been relevant.” 

“I think you actually believe that.” 

“I’ve told you before, my dear, that I believe all my lies. But I know better than to believe yours. You are not going to resign from Starfleet, leave all your friends behind, and give up the protections of the Federation so that you can come live in the ruins of an enemy planet. With _me_. Not even you are that impetuous.” 

“I’m not being impetuous,” he said. He paused. “I’m smarter than you, you know. And that’s not arrogance, it’s just a fact. I’m smarter than most people. My parents made sure of that. But you’ve been spinning me around in circles since the day we met. You make me question everything I know and re-examine everything I believe. I can’t just wave my ideals and principles around like a flag, I have to argue for them - they have to hold up to scrutiny. I like the way you provoke me, even if sometimes you push too far. But when I get you to concede a point, I spend the rest of the day glowing. And sometimes, more than anything, I wish that you would let me comfort you, because I think you need it more than you’ll ever admit. I know you think that I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. You’re probably right. When I came to DS9 I was naive enough and insensitive enough to see Bajor’s woes as my grand adventure. But I’m not that person anymore — at least, I hope I’m not. I know this is going to be nothing short of _hell_. And—” Julian swallowed, and reached out a hand to cup Garak’s cheek. “And how can I say that I love you, and leave you to face that alone?” 

Garak exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath. He leaned into Julian’s hand and covered it with his own. Then he chuckled, almost to himself. “This may surprise you, but I don’t have any idea what to say.”

“That must be very disconcerting for you,” said Julian. “Say that you want me to stay with you. Say that you want me to help you rebuild Cardassia. Say that you love me.” 

What could Garak do, then, but exactly as he commanded? 

Garak expected that living in the midst of Cardassia’s devastation would only crush Julian’s spirit further, and did not relish the idea of watching that happen. But paradoxically, serving Cardassia seemed to bring Julian back to himself and his Federation ideals. 

“I just help people now. Nothing else. I feel more like myself again.” His eyes even sparkled when he added, “I hope you’re not too disappointed.” 

“Cynicism is a fashion not everyone can pull off, I suppose.” 

Somehow, Julian caught him off guard yet again with this whole escalating situation with the orphan (and, as it turned out, the status of their own relationship). Garak was determined not to be moved, even if he did allow Julian to talk him into visiting the Center for Unconnected Children where his pet project resided. He did not have any particular affinity for children, and as far as he was concerned, one 4-year-old was more or less like another, pointed ears notwithstanding. As soon as they walked through the door, the boy was racing towards them, practically glowing with pleasure. Julian knelt and held out his palm. The boy pressed his hand to Julian’s, then interlocked their fingers. The gesture was inappropriately familiar for a child to initiate with an unrelated adult. It was worse than Garak had suspected: the child clearly adored him, and Julian had a weakness for being adored. 

The boy turned his head to frown at Garak. In spite of the ears and the greenish tint to his skin, with his softened features and slight ridges, he bore something of a resemblance to Tora Ziyal. (Not that Garak was about to let any reminder of that particular failure sway him.)

“This is Elim,” said Julian. “He’s my… _vakari_.” 

Garak did not allow any emotion to show on his face at Julian’s choice of term. (Another surprise, there.)

“Is that allowed?” the boy asked.

Garak offered him a bland smile. “An intelligent question,” he said. “It is unusual, but allowed.” 

He waited to broach the subject until they were settled into the glorified closet used as a visitors’ room, and the boy was occupied with some sort of colorful Terran writing implements Julian had brought.

“ _Vakari_? Are you proposing, my dear Doctor?” He raised his eye ridges. “I thought human tradition required some sort of exchange of jewelry.” 

“I didn’t hear you suggesting anything,” said Julian, a bit sheepishly. “‘Boyfriend’ seems a bit frivolous under the circumstances, and there isn’t a Kardasi equivalent for that anyway. As far as I can tell, Cardassians go directly from casual flirtation to marriage in about ten seconds flat. I’m surprised you didn’t propose during our third lunch.” 

“It might have been worth it just to see the look on your face,” said Garak. “Would you like me to propose?” 

“Not if you’re going to be an ass about it.”

“I don’t actually object to your use of _vakari_ ,”said Garak. “Though I do think it warrants some discussion before you start throwing it around.” 

“I—oh,” said Julian, flushing. “Uh, would you like to discuss it?” 

“That is what I just said,” said Garak, feigning amusement. “Though perhaps it can wait until we get home.” 

Galen seemed completely engrossed in applying colors to line drawings of Terran fauna, though Garak had his doubts as to the accuracy of his selections. Cardassians were taught to value strength, but Julian’s interest in this child had been stirred by his inherent weakness. No Cardassian would take him, even to apprentice as a servant. 

Julian himself exemplified many of the characteristics Garak had been taught to consider weaknesses, and yet, again and again he’d demonstrated a core of steel. That sort of observation did tend to force one to reconsider one’s perspective.

When they were back in the privacy of their own home (and it was _theirs_ , wasn’t it, not _his_ , whatever the records might show), he laid out his argument. “Let me be very clear about this, doctor. As far as this matter is concerned there is no _we_. You have no legal standing to adopt a ward of the state. That means that you are asking _me_ to adopt this child. That is not a connection he is likely to benefit from.” 

“What if I really was your _vakari_?”

“The ancient custom of _vakaren_ hasn’t been legally recognized in centuries, and when it was, it was still primarily a means of testing a couple’s fertility prior to marriage. If you need a Kardasi label for our relationship, then _vakari_ is suitable enough. But all it indicates is cohabitation with an informal intent to marry, usually at some as yet undefined point in the future.” 

“Then what if we _were_ married?” 

Garak sighed. “I’m not sure that connection will benefit you much, either.” 

“It would expedite my residency paperwork, and it would qualify me to act as a legal guardian.” 

“If the current government is toppled tomorrow, which is hardly outside the realm of possibility, its replacement could very well decide that my record should not have been expunged. The Obsidian Order is not remembered with fondness these days. Assuming they don’t find anything to charge you with, at best you will be granted the option of renunciation. That will allow you to watch my execution instead of sharing in it.” 

“You can’t live your whole life as if the worst case scenario is the only option.” 

“You can’t live it expecting everything will always turn out for the best. Sooner or later, something is bound to go wrong, and for people like us, ‘wrong’ is usually catastrophic.” 

“That’s what contingency plans are for. You don’t really think I’d let you stay here and martyr yourself, do you?” 

Garak gave him a long, calculating look. Slowly, he said, “I suppose that would be too much to ask.” 

“You were an asset during the Dominion War, so the Federation would be already be inclined to grant you political asylum, should you request it. But if you were also married to a Federation citizen, it would be virtually guaranteed,” said Julian. “I have thought about this, you know. Would you like to hear the probability calculations?” 

“I’ve never found much practical use for theoretical probabilities.” 

“Do you want to marry me? Just leave aside all your concerns about your political career and my safety. You can even leave aside the question of Galen, for now. I do understand why you’re reluctant and if you really can’t stand the idea I won’t press you on it. If this isn’t a commitment you can make, believe me, I do understand. It’s something I have given a lot of consideration myself, and you should know that I don’t intend to stop trying to help him in whatever way I can, however small. But I don’t need you to make a decision about that right away. So for now, just leave aside everything except _us_. Do you _want_ to marry me?” 

“It never occurred to me that I might have that option.” 

“Well, I’m putting that option on the table now.” 

“I thought you said that you weren’t the marrying type.” 

“I didn’t think I was.” Julian ran his fingers through his hair. “Back when I thought that Starfleet mattered more to me than anything else, and the people in my life would always be secondary. War has a way of adjusting your priorities. And I think Cardassia needs me more than Starfleet does.” Over the years, Julian had finally learned how to speak in subtext, so Garak heard his unspoken words: _I think_ you _need me._ “Look at us, Elim. We’ve been together for years. I live with you, I sleep next to you every night, and I have no intention of leaving. I _love_ you, even though you are quite possibly the most frustrating man in the galaxy. As far as I’m concerned, putting my thumbprint on the official forms has some practical advantages, but it isn’t going to fundamentally change our relationship. Now stop hedging, and answer the bloody question!”

The truth — and yes, there _was_ a truth to be found — was that he wanted Julian here. Moreover, he wanted Julian to be part of Cardassia, officially and legally, so that he wouldn’t have to choose between them. The two foundational pillars of Cardassian society were family and the State, and more than anything he wanted the State to recognize Julian as his family. Julian was effectively the only family he had left. If they did marry, he would become the only family Garak had ever technically had. (And perhaps, _perhaps_ , the prospect of expanding this unit from two members to three did have someappeal after all.) 

But it was hard to completely silence Tain’s voice in his head, informing him (in that arch tone that implied that not only had Garak disappointed him, but the disappointment was exactly what he expected) that he had done this to himself again. Relying on other people was sometimes an unavoidable necessity. Relying on them for emotional support was an unpardonable failing. Needing anyone in that way would destroy you. 

There had been times during his exile when it seemed like spending time with Julian Bashir was the only thing he had left to look forward to. Some days he had deeply resented Julian for this, as if he was a symbol for everything that had gone wrong in Garak’s life. How far had his life sunk, if arguing with Julian for an hour once a week was the new high point of his existence? He’d craved Julian’s body too, of course, but knew that asking for it wasn’t worth the risk. He _needed_ Julian’s company for the sake of his own sanity, and sex often complicated things in a way that might result in him losing Julian entirely. When they finally did start sleeping together, it was on the grounds that the inevitable war was likely to kill them all anyway. Tain was dead, and Cardassia had sold itself to the Dominion, and avoiding sexual gratification for the sake of preserving a friendship seemed utterly pointless.

Now the world had ended, and all he could do was try to rebuild it, in the knowledge that it would never be the same. (He could finally admit to himself that it _shouldn’t_ be the same, that the Cardassia of Enabran Tain _shouldn’t_ be recreated from the ashes.) And once again, he had allowed Julian Bashir to become his only refuge from the chaos, his only respite from the suffocation of despair. He’d spent years trying to pick away at Julian’s optimism, at Julian’s ability to find hope no matter how deep in the rubble it was buried, only to find it distressing when Julian began to lapse into despondency and disillusionment during the war. Afterward, Garak welcomed its resurrection, and now found that he needed Julian’s hope and optimism to sustain him. 

_Still the addict, Elim?_ said the voice of Tain. _How pathetic._

But what did Tain understand about love, anyway? Had he even loved Cardassia as well as he professed to? Why did Garak persist in believing _that_ lie, in spite of everything he had observed?

Tain _was_ dead, however much he still managed to insinuate himself into Garak’s psyche, while Julian was very much alive, and waiting for Garak’s answer. 

_Do you want to marry me?_

“Yes,” said Garak, and for once all other words failed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now reached the point where I am no longer at least one completed chapter ahead of myself, so the posting schedule may get more irregular from here on out. 
> 
> Next time: A reception on the Enterprise.


End file.
